A23295 R3 
1920 




AMBLIMG 
RHYMES 

H. A. McGINNIS 




CoRTightN" IS-^JD- 

COFXRlGm DEPOSIT. 



RAMBLING RHYMES 



RAMBLING RHYMES 

by 

H. A. McGINNIS 



Tke Hadley Printing Co 
Toledo, OKio 



^ of" 



Copyright, 1920, 

by 
H. A. McGinnis 



m -5 1920 



g)CU565ll5 



'Y*0 tKe little woman, v7Kose indomitable spirit 
in a frail bod]? Kas been an inspiration to me 
as we have taken tne Journey of Life together, 
this volume is affectionately dedicated. 

H. A. M. 



AN EXPLANATION. 

On November 4th, 1917, when nearly fifty- 
three years old, I concluded a letter to my daugh- 
ter Esther as follows: 

"My write is writ, 
My tale is told. 
So here I quit 
And the 'paper fold." 

I had never even tried to produce a rhyme be- 
fore, and am still wondering where the impulse 
came from that prompted me to make this attempt ! 
To other letters I added other rhymes and finding 
that it was not difficult, I kept on "rhyming" until 
this considerable output is the result. At the sug- 
gestion of some of my friends who have kindly said 
they enjoyed my verses, they now appear in this 
form. 

I find I have covered quite a range of subjects 
and some of the poems are, of course, frankly 
foolish. I had thought of attempting to classify 
them, but who can say what is really wise and what 
foolish in life! Believing that many, like myself, 
prefer the old-fashioned flower-garden where roses, 
sunflowers and violets grow together, as may hap- 
pen, rather than the formal garden where all is in 
order, I have so printed these children of my fancy, 
hoping the reader may find the transition from one 
to another not displeasing. 

It has been to me a pleasant innovation in a 
rather busy life. I write this hoping that perhaps 
others, who, like myself, have passed the half- 
century mark, may feel prompted to likewise ven- 
ture into new fields of effort, and in so doing may 
find welcome change and recreation, as I have. 

9 



CONTENTS 

Page 

Retrospection 15 

A Gray Day 18 

Sunset on Lake Erie 20 

Where Do We Go When We Go to Sleep? 22 

A Song of the Coon 23 

Old Memories 26 

Who's Who? 27 

To Bettikins 28 

The Untrod Way 30 

When Daughter Sings and Plays For Me.. 33 

A Schoolma'am's "Broke^'-en Journey 35 

"The Men They Left Behind Them"' 37 

The Brain Storm 39 

Gittin' Their Pictures Took.... 40 

The Organ's Message 42 

Washington Gladden 45 

"Until We Meet'' 47 

The Star of Gold... 48 

To Isabelle 50 

When Grandma Knits 51 

My Pet Grievance 53 

What I Want for Christmas 55 



CONTENTS 

Page 

The Poet Laura Ate 57 

To Esther 58 

The Blind Violinist ...- 61 

A Coon Houn' Dog and Her Master 63 

How A Poet Potes 67 

A Poet's Muse 69 

Why is a Preacher? 71 

To Esther — In a Frame. 74 

A Quarter Century of Service 77 

Facing Toward Thee 79 

The Close of the Old Year 80 

The Peace of Eventide 81 

What the Clock Says 82 

When One is Fifty-three 83 

When One is Fifty-four 88 

When One is Fifty-five 93 

A Poet to Himself 98 

An Autobiography .- 100 

The Song of HiawEsther 103 

A Poet's Soliloquy 108 

I Wonder? .110-138 



RAMBLING RHYMES 



RETROSPECTION. 

At close of day, when twilight fades 
And darkness settles over all, 
I no more care to venture forth 
In answer to Fair Pleasure's call; 
But in my coat and slippers old 
I like to sit and take mine ease. 
And if the spirit moves, perchance. 
To write out simple rhymes like these. 

As I thus sit with half-closed eyes 
It may be that I sometimes dream. 
And know not if the words I write 
Be things that are, or things that seem ! 
The scenes and forms of long ago 
That mem'ry brings again to me, 
As I thus muse at eventide. 
Seem clearer than today I see. 

I see again the old gray horse 
On which I slowly rode to town, 
The Cottonwood, so tall and strong. 
From which the streamers floated down. 
I sense the fragrance once again 
Of blossoms on the apple trees. 
And seem to hear the songs of birds 
And droning of the laden bees. 

I breathe again the summer's heat, 
The odor of the new-mown hay; 
The fragrance of the ripened grain 
Borne on the breezes far away. 
I gaze upon the sky so blue 
Where floated fleecy clouds of white. 
And on the fields of green and gold 
All glaring in the noonday light. 

15 



In memory the scenes change fast. 
As swiftly on an April day 
The sun breaks through the sullen clouds 
And quickly drives the showers away. 
And now I see a world of white 
Where flashing jewels gleam and glow — 
The diamonds scattered by the sun 
Upon the fields of drifted snow. 

I see the winding path I made 

As led by fancy here or there, 

My careless feet marked out their course 

Across the snow, all smooth and fair. 

And other feet made other paths, 

As if with magic pen and rule, 

A giant drew a mammoth wheel 

Whose center was the district school. 

The boys and girls I knew so well 
In that fair time, so long ago. 
Who met each other day by day. 
Are scattered — ^where I do not know ! 
But as I muse of bygone days 
And once again their faces see, 
I cannot feel that they have changed 
And now are old and gray like me ! 

Had I a fairy's magic gift 
To know and tell of unseen things. 
And so could follow through the years 
These boyhood friends, whom mem'ry brings ; 
What tales of sorrows and of joys 
Which came to them, I here might write. 
As I sit in my easy chair 
Beneath the softly shaded light. 



16 



At home, abroad, o'er land or sea, 

I know not where their paths have led. 

Nor who is rich or poor or wise. 

Who still are here and who are dead ! 

I know not who has gained success 

Nor who has fallen by the way; 

Who dreamed fair dreams which came to 

pass. 
Who met defeat from day to day. 

Perhaps to each of them have come 
Some days of joy and some of tears. 
And they may find, as I have found. 
That age comes on with passing years ! 
I wonder if they, too, have dreams 
And scenes of long ago may see ? 
And as they muse of old-time friends 
If some, perhaps, will think of me? 

I send best greetings of good cheer 
To friends who old with me have grown. 
And to that larger company 
Whose paths in life I have not known. 
No matter what has been our lot. 
No matter how have fared our ways. 
We all may sit, as evening falls. 
And think of friends of other davs. 



17 



A GRAY DAY. 

APRIL 4th, 1919. 

The earth is shrouded in a clinging mist^ 

That bars the light of heaven like a pall, 

And changes common and familiar things 

Into strange shapes and phantoms, wraiths and 

ghosts. 
As if I walked through regions of the dead ! 
The earth and air and sky and dusky light 
Are gray and dismal — not the silver gray 
Which comes with weight of years and hoary locks— 
But gray of gloom and sorrow, like the garb 
Of those who long have lived in prison's cell. 
Or like the gray of ashes on the heads 
Of those who mourn — and are not comforted. 
Seen through the mist of gray the naked trees 
Uprear gaunt branches to a frowning sky. 
As if, with spectral fingers, bony hands 
Reached out, imploring hope where hope was not! 
While from each twig and branch fall slowly down 
The dull and leaden drops, like falling tears — 
The tears of those whose grief is not assuaged. 
The forms of those I pass are dimly seen. 
Approaching for a moment through the haze. 
Then swallowed up and lost to view again, 
As if the shades of those long dead and gone 
Were forced to walk once more the face of earth, 
And shrank away from sight of mortal eyes. 
The voices of the birds I cannot see 
In querulous complaining reach my ear. 
As though in sympathy with Nature's mood 
Instead of singing forth a joyous strain. 
They twitter only of the darksome day. 
And feel the gloom and sadness of the mist. 

18 



So thus to us in life come days of gray ! 

Our souls seem lost in mists of doubt and gloom, 

And worn by care, or weary with the years, 

Or hampered by the ills of mortal flesh, 

Not seeing where our pathway leads, we pause 

And ponder if the j ourney be worth while ! 

Perhaps, embittered by the cruel wrong 

Of one we counted as a steadfast friend. 

Or with the greed and hate of those we meet. 

We even question if it were not best 

We had not started on our way at all ! 

And darker and more gloomy than the day 

And grayer than the all-enshrouding mist 

Appears the swarm of doubts and fears, which come 

To overpower and overcome the soul ! 

But with the passing of the day the sun 

Broke through the mists, and drove them far away ; 

The people that I met were hmnan folks> 

Who toiled and loved and bravely did their tasks. 

As always men have done, since time began. 

The birds sang gayly from the swaying trees 

Whose budding branches promised leafy bowers. 

Wherein to build a home secure and hid. 

For all the tiny fledglings soon to be. 

The myriad drops that trembled on each branch 

Were no more tears — ^but jewels rare and fine — 

That sparkled in the sunlight like the gems 

Which at the ball bedeck a lady fair, 

Or add the lustre to a monarch's crown. 

And to my heart came also joy and peace; 

The love of friends and those to me most dear; 

The many acts of kindness done each day — 

So common — ^we forgot to voice our thanks ! 

The love of all the mothers in the world. 

Who toil and give and ask for naught again. 

The happy children playing everywhere. 

To whom a stranger is another friend. 

19 



And all the noble hosts of every land^ 

Who give their best of hand and brain and heart 

To those of greater need — ^without reward ! 

While I groped blindly through the mist and haze 

And all of earth I knew was dull and gray. 

The sun shone brightly in an azure sky. 

And if I had but climbed the mountain's path 

Instead of walking in the vale below, 

I might have shared in all his glorious light ; 

And standing on the heights and looking down 

From far above the fleecy clouds of mist, 

Would well have known they soon must disappear. 

So from this April day, so gray and drear, 

I would that we might learn to upward climb 

To those fair heights of life, above the mists. 

Where in the golden light, we clearly see. 



SUNSET ON LAKE ERIE. 
July 4th, 1918. 
Slowly the sun descends into the west — 
A Battle God, all red with fervent heat; 
Not as a weary child who sinks to rest 
But as a warrior bold, who sees defeat. 
Though slowly driven down by unseen force 
He battles strong, although in losing fight. 
And as the conflict rages, sky and air 
And water glow and flame with lurid light. 

A filmy haze lies brooding over all 

And shadows all, although itself unseen. 

Till, breaking through a cloud in wrath, the sun 

Transmutes it into flame of copper sheen. 

And as the conflict wages to and fro 

Between the forces of the day and night, 

20 



We gaze in awe and wonder, while the earth 
Seems filled and flaming with the battle's light! 

The ships we meet and pass soon disappear 

Into the fading twilight's murky gloom. 

Like ghosts, who flee before the coming light, 

Or shadows cast by firelight in a room. 

But in the west the sky is all aflame. 

As if with Titan forces' shock and flare. 

With fire and fury, combat as to death — 

Yet not a sound comes winging through the air. 

But now our warrior bold is near to death — 
His strength is going fast, he slowly yields. 
And as he sinks, defeated but still brave. 
The conflict dies along the battle's fields. 
The lights die down, the colors change and fade 
And wondrous shades of beauty fill the skies ; 
Such tints and tones no artist here may use 
But only hopes to find in paradise. 

Our warrior stern is vanquished! Solemn night 
Broods o'er the scene of conflict like a pall; 
The stars begin to gather one by one 
Like sentries, answering a captain's call. 
Darkness again has met and conquered light. 
But as we tremble at its mystery 
We see a few faint rays still softly gleam — 
A promise of the unborn day to be. 

We look once more across the waters dark. 
But now we see the lighthouse' cheery gleam; 
And with a start, as one who wakes from sleep. 
We ponder — did we see, or did we dream ! 
But surely, in the days to come, when we 
Pass out beyond the twilight into night. 
We shall not wander where — in memory — 
We cannot see this sunset's golden light. 

21 



WHERE DO WE GO WHEN WE GO TO 
SLEEP? 

When darkness comes and our souls embark 
Upon night's ocean so wide and deep. 
And we float away, to some strange land — 
Where do we go, when we go to sleep? 
My body is here, an inert thing. 
But my spirit soars beyond the stars ; 
For time and space and the things of sense, 
And the laws of earth, no more are bars. 

In that fair country to which we drift, 

A wonderful light from somewhere streams 

That floods its beauty on all around — 

Such beauty as only lives in dreams ! 

But sorrow dwells not within that land 

And neither cometh there any pain. 

And in some strange way, in that strange land. 

The old and weary grow young again. 

The sleeping babe on his mother's breast. 
So lately come, from we know not where. 
With his cheek of silk and his rose-bud lips 
And his brow so white, which knows no care ; 
He stirs and smiles with a sigh of bliss 
As his eyes behold that land afar. 
And we know well, wherever it be. 
That he has been where the angels are. 

Grandmother sits in her easy chair 

And over her book she starts to doze; 

The book sinks down from her feeble hands — - 

O'er her eyes so dim the lids soon close. 

It needs must be but a little way. 

She goes to visit that golden shore, 

22 



To meet the many of those she loves — 
Who come not back — having gone before. 

Each of us visits that unknown land, 
The land of his dreams, and cometh back. 
But each must go with a fairy's tread 
For the journey o'er, we leave no track! 
But some fair day, in a Better Land, 
When we shall know life's mysteries deep. 
We'll find the answer, which here we ask: 
Where do we go, when we go to sleep ? 



A SONG OF THE COON. 

I sing the song of the hunted coon. 
The baying hounds and the starry night. 
The hunters bold in their costumes old. 
The pathless woods and the lantern's light. 
The cracking brush and the leafless trees. 
The sighing wind and the harvest moon. 
And long, with a longing vain, for words 
To tell of those who would hunt for coon. 

I sing the song of the gloomy woods. 

Where shadows black, like strange ghosts appear. 

Where the mourning wind moans ceaselessly 

And fills the soul with uncanny fear ; 

Where no life is, that the eye can see. 

In tree, or bush, or upon the ground, 

And yet one feels that a million eyes 

Watch every movement, from all around. 

I sing the song of the trailing hound. 
Of ugly shape and the drooping ear. 
Whose deep-toned voice, as he runs the coon. 
The eager hunter is glad to hear. 

23 



I sing the song of the frosty air. 
The bending sky and the pale moonlight 
That paints the rocks and the naked trees 
And all it touches, a spectral white. 

I sing the song of the cornfield bare. 

The straggling shocks, standing all in rows 

Like soldiers' tents of some warrior bold. 

Who for his lady, on conquest goes. 

But thinking not of such silly things 

As a warrior bold or harvest moon, 

Or a wind that mourns or ghosts that walk. 

To get his supper, comes Mister Coon. 

He strolls along in a lordly way 
From side to side, as by fancy led. 
But as there comes to his ear a sound 
He stops and stands, with uplifted head ! 
It is the bay of the trailing hound 
Comes on the wind to his list'ning ear. 
But though he knows that it danger means. 
To his stout old heart it brings no fear. 

He disappears as if swallowed up. 
His track he doubles to fool the dog, 
To lose the scent to his old-time foe. 
He jumps to a stump — from stump to log. 
He twists and turns as he swiftly goes, 
A fleeting shape, that one cannot see. 
And in a trice, our old Mister Coon 
Is safely hid, in his hollow tree. 

The baying hounds on the doubling trail 
With nose to the ground run to and fro. 
The scent they lose and then find again — 
In a noisy pack, away they go. 



24 



The hunters follow as best they can 
To the tree the dogs are gathered round. 
But though they search by the lantern's light- 
Not a trace of Mister Coon is found! 

The tree is large and the night is late. 
To cut it down would take time and toil. 
And so it happens that once again 
The wise old coon does the hunters foil. 
The frantic dogs know the coon is there 
And will not leave, until dragged away; 
As, weary, the men and dogs wend home. 
They meet the beams of the coming day. 

And down in my heart I'm almost glad 

For Mister Coon, in his hollow tree. 

That to roam the woods and fields by night 

In his lordly way, he still is free. 

But in the tang of the frosty air. 

With bending sky and the harvest moon, 

I would not mind, with the hunters bold. 

To follow the hounds, a-hunting coon ! 



25 



OLD MEMORIES. 

There's no friend like an old friend, 

We've known and loved for years. 
There's no tune like an old tune, 

To fill the eyes with tears ; 
No mansion, tall and stately. 

However far we roam. 
That fills the soul with longing 

As does our old-time home. 

There's no book like an old book. 

Read many, many times. 
No verses of such beauty 

As old familiar rhymes; 
There's no view like the old view 

Of scenes of long ago. 
No pictures like the pictures 

Of friends — we used to know. 

There's no lake like the old lake. 

Kissed by the moonlight's beams. 
On which we slowly drifted 

And dreamed youth's fairest dreams ; 
There's no song like an old song. 

Whose words we've often sung, 
No sweethearts like old sweethearts, 

Still lovers — as when young. 



26 



WHO'S WHO? 

It is a day when I have time 
And feel I would a poem write, 
But as for thoughts to put in words — 
They seem to all have taken flight. 
Now that sounds well, but as a fact 
It would more truthful be, I fear, 
Instead of saying they have flown 
To say that they were never here! 

I'd like to meet the stubborn elf 
Who dwells within this head of mine. 
And find why, when I would compose^ 
He will not write a single line. 
Or why, when I am half asleep. 
He should such rhymes of beauty make. 
That I would famous be, could I 
But write them out, when I'm awake ! 

We do not get along at all. 
Because, I choose some noble theme, 
In firm resolve that I will write 
That poem grand, of which I dream. 
But when I ask for words to tell 
The swelling thoughts that fill my breast. 
And write out what he gives to me, 
I find they make a silly jest ! 

Or as today, when I sit down 
With pen and paper both at hand. 
He will not bring a single word 
To write the verses I had planned. 

27 



And then again^ when I should sleep 
And it is still and dark at night, 
He brings me words, all put in rhymes^, 
That he insists I ought to write ! 

And when in day-time, at my desk, 
I toil to earn my daily bread. 
And try to honest service give — 
With such queer thoughts he fills my head ! 
And I am glad to know that folks 
Who come and business talk with me. 
Although they hear the words I say. 
The thoughts I think — ^they cannot see! 

So though I wonder, night and day, 
About this funny, stubborn elf. 
And try to find out who he is — 
He still insists he's just himself! 
And while we must together live. 
Yet, as today, we disagree. 
And I would greatly like to know 
Which one of us is really me! 



TO BETTIKINS. 



Away out in the Golden West 
Where fragrant roses bloom and grow, 
They say a girl named Betty lives. 
That I would greatly like to know. 

I've known your mother years and years 
But never saw you, Betty Girl! 
I wonder if your hair is straight. 
Or if it twists into a curl ? 

I wonder if your hair is black, 
Or if it has a golden hue ? 

28 



And if jour eyes are brown or gray^ 
Or like the sky, so very blue? 

What does your papa call you when 
You two, together, romp and play? 
Now Betty seems too prim a name 
To call a little girl all day! 

I used to have a little girl. 
Who lived with me, when she was small. 
But she grew big and went away. 
So now I have no girl at all ! 

This little girl was much like you 
And not a bit like Mr. Frog, 
But when we used to talk in fun 
Sometimes I called her PoUywog ! 

Now wasn't that a funny name 
For any girl to answer to? 
It seems to me that Bettikins 
Would be a better name for you. 

And so I wish you'd tell your folks 
That when you play, if they don't care. 
That they shall call you Bettikins — 
The name / sent for you to wear ! 

When you grow big, if some one says 
They think you have a queerish name, 
Tell them that it was sent to you. 
And that with it some verses came. 

And that these verses were not meant 
For folks to read, who old have grown, 
But they were just for Bettikins — 
A little poem, all her own. 



29 



THE UNTROD WAY. 

'For ye have twt passed this way heretofore." 

Joshua 3:4. 



With the dawn and with the sunrise, 
With the passing of the darkness, 
With the fading of the starlight 
And the coming of the daylight, 
With the brightness of the sunshine 
And the going of the shadows, 
Comes a new day, whence we know not. 
Comes a new day, how we know not, 
Comes a new day, what we know not. 
Know not what to us it's bringing. 
For if we be old or youthful. 
Stooped with age or helpless infant. 
Head bowed down with white locks hoary 
Or with curls of sunlight covered. 
Whether we be strong or feeble. 
Whether we be man or woman. 
In life's prime or at its closing. 
If our days be few or many. 
With the dawning of each sunrise 
And the passing of the nighttime. 
Comes to each, upon life's pathway. 
As again we take our journey. 
New ways heretofore untrodden. 

Some would say that we are helpless, 
Groping blindly as in darkness. 
Fearing what may lie before us. 
Holding back, but driven onward, 
Driven by some force resistless. 
As a leaf upon the current 



Of a madly rushing river. 
Driven hither, driven yonder, 
Torn, and lifeless, worn and helpless. 
Whirls and eddies, sinks and rises. 
Yet still always rushing onward 
To the fate that lies before it. 
Cruel fate, by chance decided. 
Fate it cannot change or hinder. 

That we know what lies behind us. 
Know the road our feet have traveled. 
Know the way by which we journeyed. 
Journeyed, gay, with song and laughter. 
Journeyed, sad, with pain and sorrow. 
Journeyed, glad, with friends and comrades, 
Journeyed, drear, alone and lonely. 
Know what yesterday has brought us. 
Know not what tomorrow brings us. 
And of what we know or know not 
Cannot change one jot or tittle. 
Being creatures of some whimsey 
Set adrift upon life's ocean. 
Floating without sail or rudder. 
Drifting with the winds and currents 
To disaster or destruction. 
In our coming or our going 
Helpless as the leaves of autumn. 
Whirling downward from the branches, 
Drifted here and driven yonder 
By the fancy of the stormwind. 
In the sere and gray November. 

To all such we speak in pity. 
Praying for them light and guidance. 
Feeling sure, beyond all doubting, 
(Though our way lead through the darkness 
And we see into tomorrow 

31 



No whit further, no whit clearer, 
Than to them is vision given) 
That beyond there lies a haven 
Where at last we'll safely anchor. 
That our journey is not taken 
Without path or sign to guide us. 
That we sail not on our voyage 
Without rudder, without compass. 
And that though the end we see not 
As each day we journey onward. 
Still to us each day is given 
Needful strength and needful guidance. 
Being guarded and protected 
Through the past that lies behind us. 
Going on with steadfast footsteps 
Through this day that now is with us, 
We look forward to the morrows 
Strong in faith, beyond all doubting. 
That it be well with us alway, 
Well with us in health or sickness. 
Well with us in joy or sorrow, 
That Our Father planned our goings 
And that when our days are over. 
When we journey no more onward 
But lie down like little children. 
Tired and weary, to our slumber. 
We shall waken in His presence. 
Greet the loved ones gone before us. 
And then know, beyond all doubting, 
Though while here our eyes were blinded 
To the pathway just before us. 
All the way Our Father led us. 
Planned tomorrow's journey for us. 
And each day did guide our footsteps 
To the journey's end at twilight. 
Though in truth at each day's dawning 
As we started on our journey, 



32 



We could say, each to the other. 
As was said in Ancient Record 
Of the chosen people, Israel, 
That by this way we had passed not 
Heretofore, upon life's journey. 

"When ye see the ark of the covenant * * * * then ye 
shall remove from your place, and go after it * * * * that 
ye may know the way by which ye must go; for ye have 
not passed this way heretofore." — Joshua 3:3, 4. 



WHEN DAUGHTER SINGS AND PLAYS 
FOR ME 
When from my work I come home tired 
I do not care again to go 
To lecture or to theatre. 
Or even to a picture show; 
But in my coat and slippers old 
(I'm getting on in years you see) 
I like to stretch upon the lounge — 
While daughter sings and plays for me. 

I do not care for rag-time tunes. 
Like those so many people play. 
Nor even for the latest songs 
That one hears whistled every day. 
And so it is the grander chords 
And songs of haunting melody — 
Perhaps a plaintive Negro air — 
That daughter sings or plays for me. 

On one side of the table lamp. 

With needle swift, her mother sits. 

While Grandma with her snow-white hair, 

Upon the other knits and knits. 

Her brother with his Latin book 

Says what it means he does not see; 

33 



While I lie there with half-closed eyes 
And daughter sings and plays for me. 

Sometimes it is a stately march 

Of muffled drums and footsteps slow ; 

Or noble theme, that's taken from 

An ancient oratorio. 

Where some fine soul has left to us 

His vision of eternity 

Which will endure, while time shall last — 

That daughter plays or sings to me. 

Again it is a song of love ; 
' 'Tis Love that makes the World go round !' 
In every age, in every clime. 
In every race, has love been found. 
Mayhap it is a gladsome theme 
Or yet again a tragedy — 
Thus set to music all moods come. 
While daughter plays and sings for me. 

I would that I had words to tell 
The feelings, that no words can say, 
Which come to me with music's spell. 
And, when it ceases, pass away. 
Or that I had a brush to paint 
The visions, which no eye can see. 
That music draws with magic wand 
While daughter sings or plays for me. 

It cannot be this Gift Divine 
Should perish with the things of earth ; 
To me it seems so finely wrought 
It must have had a nobler birth; 
And so I feel these chords sound on 
Through all the ages yet to be. 
And that, somewhere, again 111 hear 
What daughter sang and played for me. 

34 



A SCHOOLMA'AM'S "BROKE 'EN 
JOURNEY 

A Schoolma'am through the summer months 

Had spent her money — gay — 
Forgetting that there always comes, 

At length, a "rainy day," 
And as she journeyed back to work 

Each time that she awoke. 
The car wheels sang this song to her: 

"You're broke ! You're broke ! You're broke !' 

It was the melancholy days 

And she was feeling blue. 
Sojourning in an upper coop 

Of our friend McAdoo. 
And when the brakeman called the towns 

It seemed, each time he spoke. 
As if he named the selfsame one: 

"Sheezbroak ! S-h-e-e-zbroak ! Sheezb-r-o-a-k !* 

The track ran on the water's edge 

Along a shining lake. 
Sometimes o'er creeks and rivers, too, 

Its winding way did take. 
And everywhere along the rails 

Where there were frogs to croak. 
They chanted loud, in unison: 

"She's broke ! She's broke ! She's broke !" 

The engine panted loud and hard. 

It climbed o'er hill and dale 
And like a thing of life it flew 

Along the shining rail. 
And as it sped it left behind 

A curling trail of smoke. 
With letters plain as you see here: 

"She's broke! She's broke! She's broke!" 



Part of the way the sun shone bright 

And then the clouds grew black. 
Except where lit and riven by 

The lightning's fiery track. 
And with the Storm King's awful voice 

The thunders loudly spoke. 
In rumbling tones, the solemn truth: 

"You're broke ! You're broke ! You're broke !' 

The rain-clouds kissed the drooping plants 

And springing verdure fair. 
And strength and vigor came again 

Into the moistened air. 
And as into the thirsty ground 

The grateful rain did soak, 
On the car roof it pattered loud: 

"She's broke! She's broke! She's broke!" 

Quick as it came the storm passed on. 

The tumult died away. 
And peace and quiet brooded o'er 

The closing of the day. 
The setting sun threw o'er the hills 

A gorgeous, golden cloak, 
And on the clouds these words appeared: 

"She's broke ! She's broke ! She's broke !" 

And with the passing of the years 

(Time swiftly hurries by) 
This schoolma'am she will graduate 

And mount up to the sky ; 
And when St. Peter leads her in 

Among the happy folk. 
They'll greet her with the well-known song: 

"She's broke ! She's broke I She's broke !" 



36 



'THE MEN THEY LEFT BEHIND THEM' 

Mother has gone a visiting 

And Sister she went too. 
It seems that in the scheme of things 

They've nothing else to do. 
But Father is an office boy 

And Son he is a clerk, 
And while the women gad around 

They stay at home — and work. 

The women, all togged up, they take 

An auto ride each day; 
When late they rise, they nothing do 

But gossip and be gay; 
But we poor men — each night the clock's 

Loud a-lar-um we wind, 
And in the morning early hike 

Down to our daily grind. 

The ladies dine in state each day 

On chicken and on pie. 
And cannot eat all they are served 

No matter how they try. 
While in a one-armed restaurant 

We struggle with the bunch. 
And count our pennies, hoping we 

Can get a ten cent lunch! 

And while they, gay, our money spend 

As if it grew on trees ; 
And loll around, are waited on, 

And daily take their ease ; 

37 



We hustle each and every day 

And squeeze each gasping cent. 

Trying our best to hold our jobs 
And, some way, pay the rent. 

They go to parks and picture shows 

And theatres galore 
Until they're closed, and then they wish 

That they could go to more. 
While we don't even spend a cent 

For chewing gum to chaw. 
But lonely sit upon the porch 

And hear the neighbors jaw. 

Now Mother is a lady fine 

And Daughter is also. 
So in an auto they must ride 

Each place they want to go. 
But Father is an office boy 

And Son he is a clerk, 
And while the women gad around 

They stay at home — and work. 

—Both of Them, 



38 



THE BRAIN STORM 

The ambient atmosphere's encircling mist — 
The over-arching skies' cerulean blue — 
The all-embracing sun's pellucid light — 
Enfold the world in an ethereal hue. 
And as with eyes inscrutable I watch 
The ever-changing shadows wax and wane, 
My wild-pulsating breast is thrilled and torn 
With anguish and with unrelieved pain! 

I feel the thrill of the on-rushing sun; 

My brow is swept by the caressing breeze; 

The birds' antiphonal chorus I hear, 

In oratorio among the trees. 

But mid all nature's unrestrained j oy, 

While, prithee, erstwhile, I would yet be glad, 

Emotions wild and fearful rack my soul. 

And in my inmost being I am sad ! 

I writhe me not in loneliness alone, 
I have the soulful sympathy of friends; 
In ever-present, close companionship 
Their kindness with my agony it blends. 
It is not nature, with her changing moods. 
Nor cruel scorn which causes my poor state ; 
Nor heat or cold or wildly-rushing thought — 
I think it must be something that I ate! 



I used some words and made some rhymes. 

As by my fancy led. 
But as I read my verses o'er 

I can't find what I've said! 
But what I want to know is this: 

What should one do, I pray ! 
Who overflowing with fine words 

Has not a thing to say? 

39 



GITTIN' THEIR PICTURS TOOK 

My Sis shez bin away out west 

A teechin in a skool 
An sez that enny plase she goz — 

Jus like it wuz a rool — 
That all the peepul that she noz 

With enny foaks at all, 
Tha alluz haz picturs of 'em 

A hangin on the wall. 

Now Maw and Paw is gittin old. 

Their hare is sorter gray, 
Their pictur's in Maw's album but 

Tha ain't a bit that way. 
An mebbe tha don't want to no 

How kinder old tha look. 
For Sis she had an awfuU time 

Gittin their picturs took. 

Boath of 'em sed tha wuz to old. 

The wetther wuz to hot; 
An enny how tha kouldn't go 

Koz it woud kost a lot. 
An enny wa no wun woud want 

Their picturs for to sho — 
But Sis she kep a naggin 'em 

Untill tha sed thad go. 

Mebbe tha didn't hait to go 

Az bad az tha let on, 
But enny way its over now 

Fer tha hev bin an gone. 
It's funnier an enny thing 

You reed in enny book. 
How Maw and Paw tha went down town 

An had their picturs took. 

40 



Maw askt the gurl if hur blak waste 

Ov lase woud bee alright, 
Coz she had brot anuther wun 

That wuz all over white. 
She fusst aroun an rubbed hur fase 

An went an komed hur hare, 
Tho she hed sed that how she lookt 

She reely didn't kare ! 

My Paw hez growin old an fat 

An so, from spring to fall, 
He goz aroun a swettin an 

Don*t ware no kote at all ; 
But now I had to lugg along 

Hiz Sunday kote and vest, 
So he koud ware 'em to be shot 

An look hiz vary best. 

Now Paw he haz a big gold chane 

Maw giv him wuns you no,. 
An he wuz worryin f er feer 

Mebbe it wouldn't sho. 
An he hed komed hiz hare down slik 

An woar his bestest tie. 
An shind hiz shuz an everything — 

Till I most thot I'd die. 

And when the proof things tha kum horn 

Maw sez : "Wy that ain't me ! 
I never lookt az old az that! 

Rinkels iz all you see." 
But Paw thot hurz it wuz jus fine 

And sez to hur: "You no 
You ain't az yung az you wuz wuns 

In them daze long ago." 

But when Paw saw the proof ov him 
He almos thru a fit, 

41 



An stormed aroun an sed that thing 

Wuz not like him — a bit! 
But Maw put on hur speks an sed 

That it wuz pritty good. 
Only, mebbe, it maid him look 

Sum yunger than it shoud. 

But now the picturs haz kum horn 

I think mebbe thare glad, 
An tho I laffed at 'em a lot — 

Still I am kinder sad; 
Fer while I am gittin big 

An stronger evry da. 
My Maw and Paw keep growin old. 

Their hare keeps turnin gray. 

It seemz so kweer — an yet I spoze 

In them daze long ago. 
That Paw kalled Maw his sweetheart an 

That she kalld him hur bo. 
An mebbe tha wud ratther think 

Of how tha ust to look. 
When them picturs, in Maw's album, 

Hed only jus bin took ! 



THE ORGAN'S MESSAGE 

Dedicated to Herbert Poster Sprague. 
I sat within a temple whose dim light 
Came softly through the window's shaded panes. 
Whereon was shown, in glass of myriad tints. 
The figures of the prophets of old time. 
The saints and martyrs of the early years. 
Those emblems of our faith, the cross and crown. 
And, in a halo of most glorious light. 
The saddened features of the uncrowned Christ. 

42 



Above, rose pointed arches lost in gloom, 
Formed of great beams carved out with cunning 

skill, 
Now mellowed by the tender hand of time ; 
Until one knew not if his gaze were barred 
Or reached the spaces of infinity. 

Unwarned there comes a sudden burst of sound 
As if of storm upon the mountain top. 
The lightnings flash, the thunders roll and crash. 
The torrents roar in nature's strife and din; 
One hears the belching cannons' voice of death. 
The clash of armies and the throbbing drums, 
The trumpets' call to battle, loud and clear, 
All mingled in the mighty organ's tones 
Into a tortured chaos of wild sounds. 
Reverberating through the arches' gloom. 
And thus, without a voice or spoken word. 
Or painted picture or the printed page, 
There comes to me the organ's message — War ! 

The clashing sounds of strife now die away 

And in their stead I hear a changing tone, 

A note unheard before, a subtile sound. 

So clear it rises over all the rest 

As if a lark were mounting up to sing. 

Into the glorious spaces of the heaven. 

And while it swells and rises, louder still, 

Like countless voices joining in a strain, 

I thrill and tingle as in unison 

And know the organ's message — Victory ! 

But while I waited, softly through the air 
Came wafted music, like a poet's dream ; 
The sounds of chimes at sunset from afar ; 
The low, faint murmur, like to that which comes 
When to the ear we hold an ocean shell ; 

43 



The whisper of the summer's dying breeze ; 
The lullaby a mother sings her babe ; 
The twitter of the birds at twilight hour; 
The ripple of the sleeping ocean's waves ; 
And, though no word is spoken, to my soul 
There comes the breathing organ's message — 
Peace ! 

But still the master's hands with skillful touch 

Upon the keys he knows and loves so well. 

Weave of the warp and woof of varied sounds 

Strange patterns of a haunting melody, 

That change from dark to gray, from gray to light, 

And thence into the rainbow's flaming hues. 

As in a piece of silk of olden time. 

Wrought with unhurried care by loving hands. 

The many colors, dark and light and gay. 

Are in completeness, one harmonious whole. 

And thus, in spirit, I am borne away 

Upon the throbbing organ's melody 

To some fair land — perhaps a land of dreams — 

Where none of life's discordant notes are heard. 

But all blend into one grand harmony 

Of many instruments in perfect tune. 

So journeying, I cannot but believe 

That this strange thing we know as music here 

Was given to us by some Power Divine — 

A silken thread of scarlet through life's maze. 

Dropped down to us from out some better land; 

Which, when we follow back to whence it came. 

Leads to the Builder of the Universe, 

Who looked upon his work when it was done. 

And resting, saw that it was very good. 



44 



WASHINGTON GLADDEN. 

He needs no words my unknown pen might write 
To tell of him, or of his labor — done; 
His work for men — the fearless truth he taught — 
The world around have love and honor won. 
In gratitude for what his life has meant 
To me and mine, this message I would send 
As one, of many, in the years gone by. 
Who knew him as a pastor and a friend. 

We voyage o'er the ocean's restless waves. 
In storm and sunshine, on its bosom vast. 
And gaze and wonder — ^but the voyage done. 
Our hearts beat quicker when land comes at last. 
We travel far to nature's beauties view. 
And yet are glad to reach our journey's end. 
That we may rest, from constant changing scene. 
In home-like visit with an old-time friend. 

The children with their beauty and their smiles, 
A poet speaks of as earth's fairest flowers; 
Sent here, in innocence and purity 
To cheer us, even in our darkest hours. 
They go so quickly out into the world — 
A few short years, and we are left — alone ; 
But yet we would not they should children stay. 
But gladly see them men and women grown. 

We love the beauty of the glowing day. 
Are proud our work to do, while it is light ; 
But weary with its stress and with its toil, 
We welcome rest which comes with hush of night. 
We praise the springtime, with its budding life 
And promise that the earth shall bloom again ; 
But sow and plant — when harvest time shall come- 
That we may reap the sheaves of golden grain. 

45 



On this old earth we laud the finished task — 
Not incomplete — ^but sturdy work well done ; 
We praise not him who puts his armor on, 
But he who lays it off — the battle won. 
So in all life, first comes the hour of birth, 
To man and beast, to every plant that grows ; 
And that life be complete, to all must come — 
To man as well — ^the hour when life must close. 

When we are gray and worn and old and stooped 
Long weary with our labor by the way. 
We hail the coming shadows of the night 
Which mark for us the closing of our day. 
And though life's labor and its toil for men 
Should cause us far and wide the earth to roam; 
At evening, longing for its peace and rest. 
We turn back, gladly, to Our Father's home. 

Thus at his going hardly can I say 
That we should grieve, or be unduly sad; 
So many of his friends and those he loved 
Have gone before and wait, with welcome glad. 
His work well done, with love and honor blest. 
He lived beyond the Psalmist's four-score years; 
So while we say "Farewell !" we would not grieve, 
Though as we speak our eyes are filled with tears. 

Believing in the faith he taught so long 
And sharing with him in its hope and trust, 
Although we know not when, or how, or where. 
We know that meet again we surely must. 
When in the coming days, if soon or late. 
Life's veil of mystery for us shall rend. 
Then we shall share, with him, that better life 
That through eternal ages has no end. 



46 



"UNTIL WE MEET." 

IN LOVING MEMORY OF ROBERT M. GRIFFITH. 

"Yet love will dream and faith will trust, 
(Since He icho knows otir needs is just) 
That somehow, soTneivhere, meet we must." 

— Whittier. 

It seems but yesterday we met 

And talked about the coming days; 
Then parted, careless, as friends do, 

And went, each one, his usual ways. 
Erect and strong, a noble boy, 

He waved his hand — went smiling on — 
Expecting soon we'd meet again; 

And now — ^they tell me he is gone ! 

The sun is shining bright and fair. 

The breezes nod the flowers of June, 
From every tree and bush I hear 

The songs of birds, in happy tune. 
All nature smiles and beckons Youth 

To future days of hope and cheer; 
Of all this joy our friend was part: 

But now — they say he is not here ! 

The Quaker Poet's wondrous gifts 

Of speech and song were his alone ; 
Such power to move the hearts of men 

To better things, as few have known. 
Though we have not his vision keen 

And blindly for the truth we grope. 
We still may feel his words are true 

And share his simple trust and hope. 

We see now, darkly, as through glass, 
And in our lives are tears and pain. 

But There we'll see, as face to face. 
And all the dark will be made plain. 

47 



We stumble, halting, as a child, 
And ask our pathway to be shown; 

But when we reach our journey's end, 
Then we shall know as we are known. 

Although our friend is gone from sight — 
His cheery words no more we hear. 

Yet always he is with us still 

In mem'ry's pictures, plain and clear. 

Though why he left us — young and strong- 
May not be known to mortal ken. 

We share the Quaker's simple faith 
That surely we shall meet again. 

So at his going we may grieve. 

But not as those who have no hope; 
And though his body we have laid 

Beneath God's Acre's grassy slope ; 
We know, some day, when we are done 

With this world's toil and care and strife. 
We'll meet, with Him who said: "I am 

The resurrection and the life." 



THE STAR OF GOLD. 

IN HONOR OF JOSEPH M. KING, WHO WAS KILLED IN 
ACTION ON THE ITALIAN FRONT, SEP- 
TEMBER 28th, 1918. 



A Flag of Service hangs upon the wall. 

So thickly studded with its stars of blue. 
Each star in honor of a lad as dear — 

To someone — as are ours to me and you. 
And as again in its accustomed place 

That flag, which means so much, our eyes behold. 
We see that in its field of stars so blue 

One more is covered by a Star of Gold ! 



It may be that we murmur : "Some must die 

On that mad battle line across the sea." 
Or breathe a prayer of thankfulness, the star 

Means not the boy most dear to you or me! 
Into the world we'll go our common ways. 

The world of toil, where goods are bought and 
sold, 
And on the morrow, at our daily task. 

May quite forget there's one more Star of Gold ! 

But in one home, where proudly there has hung 

A Flag of Service — with a single star — 
In honor of a lad, as dearly loved 

As yours and mine — yet spared to us — ^now are, 
They'll not forget. And what it means to them 

Cannot by us, with word or pen, be told. 
As blinded by their tears, with trembling hands. 

Upon the blue they place a Star of Gold. 

From out the Holy Writ the Preacher read: 

That God Himself shall wipe away our tears. 
That sorrow, crying, pain, shall be no more 

And no more death, in those eternal years. 
For all the former things shall pass away 

And He upon the Throne make all things new. 
These words we bring — ^we have none of our own — 

To those who place the gold upon the blue. 

But in the future day — God grant it soon — 

When Right has triumphed over Greed and 
Wrong, 
And we shall welcome back our boys again. 

Who fought and suffered through the time so 
long; 
As we give honor, praise and highest fame 

To those who thus return — our warriors bold — 
Let us remember him — and his — ^whose star 

Has been transmuted — from the blue — to Gold. 

49 



TO ISABELLE. 

I know a winsome little maid 

With yellow, flaxen hair. 
Who in the gladness of her heart 

Friendship with me would share ; 
And though it seems so many years 

Since I was once a boy 
I'm glad that I am counted one 

To share her youthful joy. 

To her, whose nimble, flying feet 

So swiftly come and go. 
My plodding steps and settled ways 

Must seem so very slow. 
With rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes. 

And tresses — all of gold — 
She must feel, with my graying hair. 

That I am old and old. 

And so, although I'm greatly pleased, 

I almost wonder why 
She counts me one among her friends — 

This little maid so shy ! 
And though that bobbing head of hers 

Holds other reasons quite, 
I b'lieve one reason she likes me 

Is 'cause I verses write. 

And if so be I've reckoned right. 

Then I am very glad. 
And feel no greater compliment 

My verses could have had. 
For all the words of all the years 

That have been said or sung. 
Seem most worth while, when joy they give 

To those whose hearts are young. 

50 



So thus I thank this little maid. 

Who counts me as her friend ; 
May peace and joy and happiness 

Her gladsome days attend. 
I know no better wish than this : 

That all around she cheers, 
Both young and old, with friendship true. 

Through all the coming years. 

So many books, both prose and verse. 

There are for her to read. 
That to these simple rhymes of mine 

Perhaps she'll scarce give heed. 
But I have felt, that to this maid 

Whom I have gladly known. 
That I would like to write and send 

A Poem — all her own. 



WHEN GRANDMA KNITS. 
A lady old, with snow-white hair. 

Close by our big front window sits 
And all throughout the livelong day 

For Soldier Boy she knits and knits. 

Sometimes it is a pair of socks 

On which she shapes a toe or heel; 

And then again a sweater warm. 
That biting winds he may not feel. 

Her task begins at early morn. 

Almost as soon as it is light ; 
And is not done, when curtains drawn. 

We gather round the lamp at night. 

She's bowed with more than four-score years; 
You'd think her work was long since done. 

51 



Instead, one task is hardly through 
Until another is begun. 

Though Father Time has dimmed her eyes, 
Her spirit's one which never quits; 

So spite of years and failing sight, 

For hours and hours she knits and knits. 

And as I watch, I wonder oft 

What it may be those dim eyes see ; 

And if to her a vision comes 

Of camp and trench beyond the sea. 

Does she behold a Soldier Boy 
In comfort kept, in snow or rain. 

By garments that her fingers wrought? 
And is that why she knits again ? 

We'll hope whatever visions come, 
As back and forth her needles go. 

Are pleasant ones. For much of war 
We would not have her see or know. 

I wonder also if the Boy, 

Who wears the sweater made for him. 
Will ever know that it was knit 

By fingers old and eyes so dim.'' 

Perhaps he'll dream some bright-eyed maid. 
Demure, with hair of golden sheen. 

And slim, white fingers, stitch by stitch. 
His sweater made — for youth will dream ! 

'Twill only be by merest chance 
The Soldier Boy will ever know 

Who knit the sweater that he wears. 
Or she to whom her work does go. 

52 



Though one is young and one is old. 

And one knits here and one fights there. 

The same spirit — ^which never quits — 
Has moved each one to do his share. 

They both should feel, as best they can, 
Each one of them has done his bit. 

Though he must cross the sea to fight, 
And she stay here and only knit. 

As at the window, day by day. 

We see Grandma still knitting there, 

Past four-score years, with hair so white: 
To win this war we'll do our share ! 
Feb. 20th, 1918. 



MY PET GRIEVANCE ! 

When, that my folks may eat, I've worked all day. 
And coming home at night take off my hat 
To hang it up — ^there is no vacant peg 
Upon the rack — but I am used to that ! 
When weary thus from toil I would sit down. 
One of them always has my special chair ; 
But that has happened through so many years. 
Not having it, I do not greatly care ! 

The greatest pleasure I have left in life 

Is to sit down and read my paper through ; 

And I should think that, having toiled all day. 

It is not wrong to do that — ^wouldn't you ? 

In order I like to commence page one 

And then go on to pages two and three. 

But when my folks are through it's all mussed up, 

And page sixteen is where page one should be ! 

53 



I have a desk, tradition says is mine. 

At which, when work is done, I sit at night 

And think great thoughts, and — when the spirit 

moves — 
Poetic Verse, like this, I sometimes write ! 
I say "sometimes" advisedly because. 
Quite frequently, for me no room is there. 
And I must woo my muse as on my lap 
I'm forced to write, while sitting in a chair ! 

My desk it often holds a hat or two. 
And almost always Mother's pocketbook; 
A pile of books, a baseball glove and mask. 
Sometimes a sweater, if one closely look ! 
A lot of Daughter's letters scattered 'round 
And stationery of most any hue ! 
So do you wonder I write on my lap? 
What else is there a man like me can do? 

But being in my disposition kind, 

I've trained myself to bear these things I've told. 

Hoping that for the future I shall earn 

A crown — at least a part of which is gold ! 

And so my folks and I we get along 

And it is seldom that we have a clash. 

Except when — as today — one of them swipes 

The scissors I keep to trim my mustache! 



54 



WHAT I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS. 

One thing I want — and need — is a fine job, 
Which does about a million dollars pay ! 
With office hours perhaps from two to four. 
Not oftener than every other day! 
My salary to run on just the same 
No matter if I work or if I quit — 
With all expenses paid — and then perhaps 
I'd manage to save up a little bit. 

Also, if I should have three pairs of pants, 
Suspenders I would like for every one. 
So I'd not always have to make a change 
When with one pair I happen to be done. 
And if not asking too much, I would like 
Before I die, to own two pairs of shoes, 
So that on Sunday I would have a change 
From those that all the week I've had to use. 

It is no harm to wish ! And so I hope 
That really meat enough is left for me 
To fully satisfy my appetite 
When I am done serving my family ! 
And, though it seem a crime, I'd like to have 
Even in times like this, with living high — 
When I am full of sundry other things — 
A chance to eat a second piece of pie ! 

I do not know whether this year we'll have 
A trimmed and lighted fancy Christmas Tree; 
But if we do — or if we don't — I want 
A five-pound box of candy — ^just for me! 
Not peppermints or gum drops or those things 
That some folks think is candy, made with dates, 
But one of those expensive boxes fine 
Filled up with soft and creamy chocolates ! 

55 



Also, I'd like a comfy limousine 

To ride in, while the weather it is cold; 

Besides a new electric runabout 

To take the place of mine — ^that's getting old! 

And with these please do not forget to have — 

Made big and roomy — all of fur — a coat, 

Together with the cap and gloves and things 

Too small to mention — but which kindly note! 

Also, a new gold watch, a diamond ring, 

A pin with pearls to wear upon my tie. 

And any little fancy things like that 

That any of you really want to buy ! 

And if your time is somewhat limited. 

And just the things you want you do not find — 

If you should want to send to me a check — 

Or even cash — I'm sure I would not mind ! 

My folks have asked me that I tell to them 

A lot of things for Christmas that I want; 

And being blessed with fancy — also words — 

To write them out does not my spirit daunt. 

So here I've set them down in verses fine. 

That all may read ! And yet ! And yet ! And yet ! 

I fear me very much the things I want 

Will be quite diff'rent from the things I get! 



56 



THE POET LAURA ATE ! 

Most of the poets that we have 

Are common souls — ^like me — 
Though if your rhymes the public please, 

You may more noted be. 
Should Genius cause you to be known 

As greatest of the great. 
Then you become (Tough luck it seems) 

The Poet Laura Ate. 

"The female of the species is 

More deadly than the male !" 
But usually, to eat a man 

Would land her quick — in jail ! 
Not having heard, I'd like to know 

What has been Laura's fate.^ 
For frequently we read about 

The Poet Laura Ate. 

The most of men are captive slaves — 

Each Jack he has his Jill ; 
She makes us toil for her through life ! 

Why should she wish to kill.'' 
Had she picked out another man.^ 

Or was the dinner late ? 
Or was it in a temper that 

The Poet Laura Ate? 

I'm glad that I am living still 

Here in old Ohio, 
But if I leave, I hope I won't 

To England have to go; 
For I am sure I would not like 

Some of their Rules of State, 

57 



For that's the place the Law provides 
The Poet Laura Ate. 

I'm living quite unknown to fame, 

And slaving hard for wife ; 
Though she takes every cent I get, 

So far — she's spared my life ! 
And while one of the deadly sex 

Has chosen me for mate — 
At any rate I'm glad I'm not 

The Poet Laura Ate! 

Perhaps in the Millennium 

Our wrongs will be made right ; 
For that will give us centuries 

Of time — ^in which to fight. 
And though it may be years and years 

We men will have to wait. 
When that time comes 'twill then be said. 

The Poet, Laura Ate! 



TO ESTHER 

ON HER TWENTY-FIFTH BIRTHDAY. 

In years gone by there came to us 
From out the Land of Mystery — 
That some place is — we know not where- 
The land no mortal eye may see — 
A tiny waif, by angels brought, 
A stranger here, that no one knew, 
A girl who came to live with us — 
And that's the day that you were you ! 

You did not seem a stranger long. 
But quickly made yourself at home. 
As one, who having traveled far. 
Has no desire to further roam. 

58 



But though you seemed content to stay. 
Each day and week you grew and grew — 
Perhaps to be like other folks — 
But strange to say^ you still were you. 

We wondered why you were so queer ! 
You had no teeth — you could not walk — 
And though you made some funny sounds — 
At funny times — you could not talk! 
You learned to creep and then to walk, 
By bumps and bruises, not a few. 
And after while you learned to talk 
And then you said that you were you. 

You went to school and there you learned 
That this old world of ours is round, 
And many queerish facts like that 
Which in a lot of books are found ; 
And after while you learned so much 
The teachers said that you were through — 
But Ma and I could not quite think 
That girl, so tall, was really you! 

Your skirts grew long, your hair went up. 
You grew quite proper and precise, 
And I'm afraid your Daddy's ways 
You sometimes felt were not quite nice ! 
And then you to a college went. 
Where you were just a Freshie new 
Among so many, I can't see 
Just how you knew that you were you! 

You studied bugs and chemicals 

And languages that long were dead. 

With theories and 'ologies 

For four long years ^ou crammed your head. 

59 



So when upon a day in June 
With sunshine bright and sky so blue, 
You proudly wore your cap and gown — 
Then we were glad that you were you. 

But now you've wandered far from home, 
We cannot see your "really" face, 
And though your picture at us gaze 
It does not take our Girlie's place; 
And though within your frame you smile — 
Just as when here you used to do — 
And show the dimple in your cheek — 
Too well we know you are not you ! 

But our best wishes with you go. 
Wherever you may chance to roam. 
And we all feel that oftentimes 
You think of us — still here at home; 
And, even should you journey far 
Across the ocean's waves so blue, 
You still would be our little girl — 
As even now you still are you. 

And so we wish you happiness 
Through all the days of coming years, 
And hope for you life's fairest joys, 
With few — as may be — of its tears ; 
But whether j oy or grief be yours 
In all things to yourself be true. 
And then — like us — whatever comes. 
You'll thankful be that you are you. 



60 



THE BLIND VIOLINIST. 

TO MR. CLYDE HAGANS, NAPOLEON, OHIO. 

Unto himself he drew his violin 

Like as a mother holding close her babe. 

And with most loving touch and soft caress 

Fondled it gently, as a precious thing 

Too frail and fragile for a rougher hand. 

The while he softly tried the vibrant strings 

To certain be within its hollow walls. 

There lingered no trace of discordant tone, 

To mar the perfect harmony of sound. 

And then he stood erect with outstretched arm 

And drew his bow across the sounding strings. 

And with the master's touch, now soft, now loud, 

The air was filled with haunting melody 

That swelled and died away and came again, 

As when we near the restless ocean's brink 

We catch at first the surging breakers' roar. 

Which dies away to silence for a time; 

But when we view their combat close at hand 

Fills all the universe with throbbing sound. 

He stood beside an organ's golden pipes 
Whose mighty music crashed upon the air 
With shock and tremor, like the thunder's roll, 
But even through the tumult of its sounds 
The violin's clear note kept singing on. 
And seemed to soar above the organ's tones 
To some ethereal height they could not reach; 
As when a bird on pinions swift mounts up 
Above us mortals plodding here below. 
But while I listened to this perfect tone 
Played with the skill that only love can give. 
And looked into the face of him who played — 
In darkness — seeing not who watched or heard — 
I wondered what it said and meant to him 

61 



As standing there he played still on and on. 
And wished that I with magic power was blessed. 
By touch of fairy's wand or gift of ring, 
So that in words my ear could hear and know 
Would come the message, both of him who wrote 
And him who played the melody I heard. 

While though to me, untrained in music's art, 
There come mere fragments of the perfect whole 
(Like sound of voices in another room. 
From which we catch a word but now and then. 
Or like a mountain's peak, viewed through the 

mists. 
Half hidden, half revealed, now seen, now gone. 
Until we know not what was rock — what cloud. 
How much was real, how much fancy's whim) 
I yet am moved when e'er I hear its sound 
And thrill in answer to the thoughts it brings. 
Although its language be not understood; 
As if one from a foreign land should speak 
In strangely fashioned, unfamiliar phrase. 
Whose sounds, though heard, to me are meaningless. 
And yet, perhaps by gesture or by look, 
I know the thought he would to me convey ; 
So always to me music brings its charm. 
Although its language I may never know. 

Also to me another message came 

Which thrilled me like the music's throbbing strain, 

The message of the player standing there — 

A master of an art of wondrous skill. 

Not satisfied until he reach the best. 

Through drudgery that we may never know. 

Attaining finally the goal he sought 

In spite of handicap of cruel fate ! 

While you and I complain from day to day 

About the petty, trifling things of life — 

62 



The weather is too hot or is too cold — 

The chance we looked for did not come today — 

The help we asked for was not given us — 

And so, although in goodly health and strength, 

We loiter by the wayside through the day 

And should feel only shame, when nightfall comes, 

When thinking of our uncompleted tasks ! 

So for the message of his violin 
Which still in memory, sings on and on. 
And for the other message — all unknown — 
Which came to me, a stranger, in the pew. 
From him beside the organ's golden pipes, 
I here set down my thanks in halting words 
And wish for him all courage and good cheer. 



A COON HOUN' DOG AND HER MASTER. 

A stern-faced business man I know 

Who hustles every day. 
You'd never think, to see him rush. 

He ever thought of play; 
In fact, so far as I've found out. 

He hums a single tune. 
And he sings that one every fall — 

"I'se gwine to cotch dat coon." 

Now, how things are around his desk 

He does not care at all; 
His books and papers scattered 'round, 

Lie just where they may fall; 
But in the line of hunting things. 

He has the latest tog; 

63 



But prizes, far above all else. 
An ugly, coon houn' dog. 

About the same time every fall 

His hunting things appear. 
His cronies all come floating in 

Dressed up in outfit queer. 
They question gravely where they'll go. 

In woodland or in bog; 
But argue heatedly about 

Who has the best houn' dog ! 

The other day this business man 

To business gave no heed. 
And all at once he disappeared ! 

'Twas very strange indeed ! 
We wondered greatly what his ways 

So suddenly did jog, 
Soon, grinning wide, he reappeared 

With a new coon houn' dog. 

Of all the ugly beasts there are. 

That dog would take the prize; 
The only good thing I can say: 

She does have handsome eyes. 
Her ears droop as if in despair. 

Her coat is dirty red; 
She's thin and scrawny, but they say 

She's certainly well bred. 

Still smiling, as if young again. 

He calls up on the phone. 
And tells his friends how marvelous 

A coon houn' he does own. 
With pride and joy he gives to them 

Her royal pedigree. 
And says : "Perhaps 'twould do them good, 

A real coon houn' to see." 

64 



An awful busy railroad man. 

Who's working night and day. 
Said that it was impossible 

For him to get away ; 
But very soon, as I look up, 

He's coming through the door. 
And those two chums discuss that hound 

At least an hour — or more. 

A lawyer, whose advice comes high 

As anyone's I know. 
Had clients, waiting, and declared 

He really could not go. 
I don't know how he came so quick. 

But think he nearly ran; 
At any rate, he almost beat 

That busy railroad man. 

So business man and railroader. 

And lawyer of high fees. 
They sat around and watched that dog. 

All perfectly at ease; 
To figure what their time was worth 

Would you or I most scare. 
But those chums laughed and argued like 

They'd never known a care. 

It's possible that you or I 

Have never hunted coon. 
Among the woods and hills at night. 

Beneath a golden moon. 
These chums are wiser: When they can 

They like to slip away, 
To roam beneath the stars at night 

And hear the hounds that bay. 

In city streets and offices 

They wear away their days, 

65 



And only things that man has made 
Greet them, where'er they gaze. 

But out among the woods at night 
All nature is in tune. 

They feel the joys of boyhood days — 
While hunting after coon. 

Among the toil and stress of life 

They've many cares by day. 
But somehow, 'neath the stars at night, 

Such things all slip away; 
And when sometimes they sit and talk. 

Around a fire of logs. 
We envy them their happiness — 

These cronies and their dogs. 

Though at their talk of dogs and coon 

We doubtless often smile. 
Perhaps, better than we, they've found 

The things that are worth while. 
And it may be, to none of us 

Could come a better boon. 
Than that we, too, with gun and dog 

Should love to hunt for coon. 



66 



HOW A POET POTES! 

All kinds of poets we have had — 
A few were good, but most were bad. 
But of them all, I am the one 
To plainly show how it is done! 

Now I've found out, but little heed 
The public give, to what they read; 
One can write bad — or even worse — 
Just so one puts his stuff in verse. 

That not too critical folks are 

Is what does not, most verses, bar; 

When all is said, the fact remains. 

Some poets have more rhymes than brains ! 

We'll illustrate with tragedy ! 
Some tragedies, all of us see ; 
And show how, like a crazy quilt, 
A poem does not grow — ^but's built. 

"Our little dog, with smile so wide, 
He first got sick — and then he died! 
The family are mourning, sore. 
Because our dog — he is no more." 

Now to write verse, you need each time 
Out on the end, some words that rhyme; 
It matters not, the words between 
Or, even if they nothing mean. 

Now any dog, to be worth while. 
Would have to have a winning smile; 
We merely speak of it as "wide" 
Because we need a rhyme for "died." 

67 



Our meaning would have been as clear 
If we had said: "A smile of cheer;" 
Or, just as well, it would fit in 
If we had called his "smile" a "grin." 

Now any dog, he might get sick, 
And well again — almost as quick ; 
'Twould not have changed the Doctor's bill 
Instead of "sick," had we said "ill." 

Our grief would change not in the least, 
Instead of "died," to say "deceased," 
Though high-brow folks, who make one tired. 
Would doubtless say, that he "expired." 

Each one of us would feel as bad. 

In place of "mourn," to say we're "sad;" 

Nor would it bring to us relief 

To name our sorrow merely "grief." 

"He is no more" is language quaint; 
'Twould mean the same to say: "He ain't." 
At any rate, upon the lawn 
He plays no more — ^he's a dog-gone! 

Now as you read these verses o'er. 
You'll see there might be many more. 
You do not need much time to spend — 
Put words that rhyme out at the end; 

And for the rest: Syllables count 

Until you have the right amount. 

And put them down — just any way. 

E'en though, when done, they nothing say. 

Carefully follow this advice — 
You'll be surprised — it works so nice; 

68 



And you will find, before you know it. 
You are, like me, a full fledged poet ! 

Now if you nothing had to do. 
And read this far, you're nearly through; 
On prose you'd not have spent the time — 
You only read, because 'twas rhyme! 



A POET'S MUSE 

My Muse is like an aeroplane 

Careening in the sky. 
Sometimes it takes an upward shoot — 

And flies a lot too hi^; 
And then it takes a sudden drop 

And comes down with a thud; 
'Tis then I pick the pieces up. 

All covered o'er with mud. 

My Muse is like a balky horse, 

That will not go at all. 
But when he starts, he runs so fast, 

He always has a fall. 
Or like an auto, in the snow. 

The wheels they buzz around. 
But after burning lots of gas. 

In the same place is found. 

My Muse is like the tortoise old. 
That always moves so slow 

That, even though you watch him close. 
You cannot see him go; 

Unlike the one we read about 
Who really won a race 

69 



This Muse of mine was never known 
To get to any place. 

I think perhaps this Muse of mine. 

Was once a poUywog, 
Because it often goes by jerks 

Just like a jumping frog. 
It never goes the way I wish. 

Or follows any rule; 
And so, sometimes, I really think 

The thing must be a mule ! 

What e'er it is, the pesky thing 

Day and night worries me. 
The way it jumps from place to place 

You'd think it was a flea ! 
I don't know if it's short or tall 

Or whether thin or stout, 
But it insists that, daily, I 

A lot of rhyme grind out. 

Into the lives of each of us, 

We're told, some troubles fall; 
'Twould not be fair if some had lots. 

And others — none at all. 
But if so be, when troubles come. 

That you can pick and choose. 
Take one poor sufferer's advice — 

Do not pick out a muse ! 



70 



WHY IS A PREACHER? 

Dedicated to 

Rev. 

I wonder why a Preacher is? 

And what he does all day? 
He doesn't work that I can see. 

He's not supposed to play ! 
Many I know, in this our town, 

They do not even walk; 
But ride in a machine all day. 

And all they do is talk! 

He nothing is supposed to do 

All day, throughout Monday; 
He's on a schedule of his own — 

Monday is Ms Sunday! 
On Monday morn the Preachers meet 

To hear each other preach; 
So far as time allows they try. 

Each one, to make a speech. 

The finding out of things unknown, 

They're not averse to try. 
We're told that Adam, freshly made. 

Hung on the fence to dry! 
The question of who made that fence 

The most of us would balk ; 
But they are glad to have it raised. 

So they can talk and talk. 

There's lots of us would wonder why 
Friend Jonah ate the whale! 

But from a simple thing like that 
They do not even quail. 

71 



They'll even illustrate it with 

A blackboard and some chalk ; 
(If it was filmed the roll got lost) 
Just so they get to talk. 

Samson, he slew a thousand men 

With bone from donkey's jaw! 
The speed it moved would seem to us 

To quite exceed the law; 
But swifter yet than Samson swung 

That ancient donkey's jaw-bone — 
Against the evils of today 

Each Preacher wags — his own! 

Tuesday is always Ladies' Aid, 

And no one's mem'ry harks 
Back to the time, when Parson failed 

To make a few remarks. 
The Daughters meet on Wednesday and 

Although he doesn't preach. 
It's felt quite proper that he should 

Make them a little speech. 

The Mid-week Meeting in our town 

Is always Thursday night; 
Of course, the Preacher talks a lot 

To keep it going right. 
On Friday night the Social's held, 

To which you pay good money. 
And there, of course, the Preacher has 

To make a talk that's funny. 

I don't know what his schedule is 

The last day of the week. 
But have no doubt, somewhere, somehow. 

He manages to speak; 
Perhaps he pleads with Grocer-man 

That he will credit give 

72 



And talks him out of food enough 
So he may Sunday live ! 

Sunday's the day he has a chance 

His very worst to do; 
He talks a while in Sunday School, 

Preaches an hour or two; 
He lectures to the Brotherhood 

And speaks for the C. E. 
And's ready quite, to preach again 

When it's seven-thirty. 

Of all the talks a Preacher makes 

I cannot even think! 
To write them down would be a waste 

Of paper and of ink. 
Societies and committees 

And various sorts of boards 
Are always meeting, and each one 

A chance to speak affords. 

It happens that of Preacher-men 

I've well known quite a few; 
In fact, I rather like the Cloth, 

Spite of the things they do ! 
And this I'll say : Their talking helps 

Them one thing do quite well. 
You'll always find each one of them 

Can a good story tell. 

In years gone by, before my thoughts 

Began to run to rhyme, 
I've often fed a Preacher and 

Enjoyed it every time. 
But I don't think it's fair in church ! 

He always has his way — 
No matter how I disagree, 

I nothing back can say ! 

73 



I wonder why a Preacher is? 

And what he does all day? 
Does he get tired of talking and 

Wish he could go and play? 
I wonder at a lot of things. 

But this, I'm sure, is true; 

That none of us would willingly 

Without him, try to do ! 
* * * * 

The Worldly Children wiser are 

Than Children of the Light ; 
We're told so in the Scriptures and 

It looks as if they're right ! 
So, whether downright cussedness 

Or only just a whim. 
Each copy sent a Preacher-man 

I'll dedicate to him! 



TO ESTHER— IN A FRAME ! 

On the piano top you sit. 

And smiling, gaze at me. 
And words can't tell how glad we are 

Again your face to see. 
Through days and nights, o'er weary miles. 

To us at length you came. 
And it was such a glad surprise. 

You, in your golden frame. 

Time swiftly passed, as time does go. 

Though you were far away, 
And as it hastened on it brought 

Our Silver Wedding Day; 
And though your gifts were fine and all. 

It really seems a shame, 

74 



That you could only come to us. 
Within a golden frame. 

When you were here you moved about, 

Sometimes had much to say. 
You sang for us, you played for us, 

The house it seemed quite gay; 
But now you only sit and smile ! 

It is not quite the same, 
Though we are glad to have you thus — 

Framed in a golden frame. 

The same old look is in your "Een," 

The dimple in your cheek. 
We wonder what the reason is 

To us you do not speak ! 
You've journeyed to your "Ain Countrie" 

And now are safe at "Hame," 
And we would like to talk with you. 

There, in your golden frame. 

But you sit there and not a word 

Can we get you to say ! 
I wonder what you're gazing at 

That seems so far away.^ 
Do you see honor, wealth and friends, 

Or do you look for fame ? 
I wish you'd tell us what you see, 

From out your golden frame. 

Do lots of people call you "Miss?" 

To us that seems so queer ! 
For we will always think of you 

As just our Esther, dear. 
Sometimes I call you PoUywog! 

But that's your funny name; 
I thought you grinned when I wrote this. 

Though in a golden frame. 

75 



Do some folks think you're quite grown up ? 

And that a lot you know? 
And are some scared, when in your class, 

Way out in Idaho? 
If that's the case it's just because 

You have a teacher's name; 
You look and seem our little girl. 

Here, in your golden frame. 

The world moves on, as move it must. 

In this it does not change; 
That their children should e'er grow up 

All parents think is strange! 
And so, to us, our little girl. 

You'll still seem just the same, 
Whether you teach in Idaho, 

Or smile, from golden frame! 
^ ^ * * 

You wonder how I write these lines ? 

In truth, I do not know ! 
Nor why, if they were in my head. 

They came not — long ago. 
But when from sleep I wakened up. 

To me this title came 
As plainly as it's written here: 

"To Esther— In A Frame !" 

I'd thought of something diff'rent quite 

To try to write to you. 
But found my mind was full of this — 

'Tis strange, as it is true! 
There must be hidden in my head 

Some funny little elf ! 
At any rate, it really seems 

This poem wrote itself ! 



76 



A QUARTER CENTURY OF SERVICE 

1893 — December 31st — 1918 
Written for the celebration of the Twenty-fifth An- 
niversary of the founding of the Collingwood Avemie 
Presbyterian Church, Toledo, Ohio. 

From out the unknown ages of the years 
A quarter century has come to be, 
Was here — is gone — alway and evermore, 
Into the past — ^which is but memory. 
A time so long, as we here reckon time. 
As days and months in order come and go ; 
Yet only as the twinkling of an eye 
When time into eternity shall flow. 

Yet in these passing years, if short or long. 
How much of human life and hope has been; 
One generation passes — and is gone — 
Another, young and strong, comes crowding in. 
The child has grown to youth and youth to age. 
Age, weary with its years, has sunk to rest; 
Strong in the faith which here has long been taught. 
That when God calls to go with Him is best. 

"What hath God wrought!" A little band of faith 

Facing toward the future all unknown. 

With purpose true and strong, in God's good grace. 

Into this goodly company has grown. 

And though in weighty books it be set down 

That this or that was done — and how and when — 

The records that will live when books are dust 

Are written in the lives and hearts of men. 

77 



The struggling, who were helped to better lives, 
The weak who here, by faith, were made the 

strong ; 
The truths for which this church has staunchly 

stood, 
Its mighty blows against the power of wrong; 
The messengers of truth it helped to send 
To distant lands and islands of the sea. 
Where hungry souls were waiting for the Word — 
Will be known only in eternity. 

Though to those members, who through all the 

years 
Have borne the heat and burden of the day. 
It seems, in looking backward o'er the road. 
That they have come a long and weary way; 
I doubt not, that with clearer vision blest. 
More clearly now than then they surely see. 
That God's good promise daily has been kept: 
"As are thy days, thy strength shall also be." 

All honor to those faithful workers who 
Have labored through the five and twenty years ; 
To-day their faces shine with joy and hope. 
Though thoughts of those forever gone, bring tears ! 
The hour is theirs, to them we gladly bring 
Our tribute of affection and of praise; 
And breathe a prayer, that ever more and more, 
God's choicest blessings crown their closing days. 

It is not fitting, one who like myself 
Almost a stranger is, should try to tell 
By whom or how — not sharing in the task — 
The work was done, which here was done so well. 
But as the record comes from the full hearts 
Of those we gladly honor here to-day, 
May it inspire and cheer and help us all. 
That we may go still further on the way. 

78 



The noble purposes and thoughts and deeds, 
That fill this score and five of years now past; 
We know in God's good time and in His way^ 
Shall come to full fruition at the last. 
And as with thankful hearts we celebrate 
The crowning of our Silver Jubilee — 
'Tis but a moment's pause, ere we press on. 
Toward the Golden Day that is to be. 



FACING TOWARD THEE 

Upon life's journey here below 
What lies before I cannot know; 
But though my way I do not see. 
May I yet turn my face to Thee. 

If fair and pleasant be my way, 
And joy my portion day by day, 
May I not fail to thankful be 
And always turn my face to Thee. 

If I should bear a heavy load. 
If long and steep may seem the road; 
Though faint and weary I may be. 
May I still keep my face to Thee. 

But whether j oy or whether pain ; 
Should life seem fair, or spent in vain 
Whatever comes is best for me. 
So help me keep my face to Thee. 

And when at length, as all must do, 
I pass the shadowed valley through. 
And tread a path I cannot see; 
In trust, I'll turn my face to Thee. 

79 



THE CLOSE OF THE OLD YEAR 

December 31st, 1918 
Upon this day there come the thoughts 
Of friends, who through the passing year, 
Walked not unto the end with us 
But stopped to rest — who are not here. 
And as into the year to come. 
Together, we still left, pass on. 
Some of us pause and turn aside 
In memory of dear ones gone. 

Of those who left us, some were young 
And some were feeble, bent and old. 
And some were mothers in the home — 
For some there hangs a Star of Gold. 
But whether youth in flush of life 
Or those who'd walked far down its hill. 
In some heart, somewhere, there is left 
A void which nothing quite can fill. 

We say not to these friends. Farewell ! 
Like those forever from us gone. 
But feel they walk a different path 
Which j oins with ours still further on ; 
And that they face the selfsame way 
Upon their j ourney now — as then — 
So though our voices choke we say: 
Goodby, until we meet again. 

Although it be a lonely road 

That some here walk through coming years. 

And it needs be that memory 

With loving thoughts, brings also tears; 

We know their pathway leads them through 

A land where all is bright and fair. 

And when we reach the Father's House 

That we shall find them, waiting there. 

80 



THE PEACE OF EVENTIDE 

Whatever we today have gained. 
However much have been denied. 
Should j oy or sorrow be our lot — 
Give to us Peace at Eventide. 

If we have won — if we have lost — 
Have reached the goal — or only tried — 
As we shall strive from day to day — 
Grant to us Peace at Eventide. 

If we have toiled among the throng 
Or sat with folded hands aside. 
Give us to feel that all is well — 
And grant us Peace at Eventide. 

As we shall walk along our way 
We ask that Thou may be our Guide, 
And though the road seem hard and long 
That Peace shall come with Eventide. 

And though we from the path shall stray, 
Yet still with us may Thou abide 
And lead us back, that we may feel 
The joy of Peace at Eventide. 

And when we reach our journey's end 
May we still find Thee by our side. 
And know with Thee that Perfect Peace, 
Which lies beyond life's Eventide. 



81 



WHAT THE CLOCK SAYS 

Upon my desk there stands a tiny clock 

To mark the passing of what we call time, 

A cheap and common thing of every day — 

Perhaps not even worth a passing rhyme ! 

And yet I would that I had words to tell 

The things this busy clock of mine may say 

As facing me, it steadily keeps on, 

Tick-tick ! Tick-tick ! Tick-tick ! through all the day. 

It tells of winter's cold and drifted snow, 

Of summer's heat and leaves upon the trees, 

Of storm — and lightning's flash — and thunder's 

roll— 
The gentle sighing of the spring-time breeze; 
Of sunset's glow and twinkling stars of night, 
Of autumn's woods and brightly blooming flowers — 
It tells of all these things, yet only says : 
Tick-tick! Tick-tick! Tick-tick! Through passing 

hours ! 

Perhaps, if we could only hear, it tells 

Of untold things — the things which only seem — 

The thoughts of youth, youth has not words to tell, 

A mother's unsaid prayer — a poet's dream — 

Of human hopes — the things for which we long — 

Of joys and sorrows — of our unshed tears — 

It tells so much we do not understand — 

Tick-tick ! Tick-tick ! Tick-tick ! So pass the years ! 

82 



It speaks of fleeting time, so quickly gone, 
Of coming days and what those days may bring, 
The unknown future into which we peer. 
Where some must weep and some with joy shall 

sing ! 
But when I question if it tell for me 
Of grief or gladness, sorrow or good cheer. 
And listen for the answer that shall come — 
Tick-tick! Tick-tick! Tick-tick! is all I hear! 

But on tomorrow and the days to come 

Upon life's journey each of us must go. 

Though where his path shall lead — if rough or 

smooth — 
Or long or short — no one of us may know ! 
But we may feel not blindly do we walk — 
That we are guided all along the way — 
And so, as twilight falls, I plainly hear: 
"Tick-tick! Tick-tick! Tick-tick! All's well today!" 



WHEN ONE IS FIFTY-THREE. 

Greetings ! All Hail ! To kin and friends 

Wherever they may be. 
Who, so far, on the Road of Life 

Yet jog along with me. 
They're scattered all the world around. 

But few my eyes can see, 
Yet would, to all, best wishes send — 

To-day, I'm Fifty-three ! 

Some of them teach and others preach, 

Some of them sign M. D. 
And some are missionaries in 

The lands beyond the sea. 



But most of them, to earn their bread. 

Work every day — like me. 
Though some are more and some are less 

Than my age — Fifty-three. 

It's in my mind, in hazy way, 

That somewhere I have read. 
On battlefield there stands a shaft ; 

"Unto the Unknown Dead." 
So many friends of years gone by 

Are now unknown to me. 
And with the changes years have brought, 

I know not where they be. 

In many ways, to many lands. 

No doubt their paths have led; 
So sad it seems, one does not know 

If living still — or dead. 
But I am sure that they shall know, 

Now — or when spirits, free — 
To them this verse I dedicate. 

Though Here or There they be. 

In mem'ry's picture of one's life 

So many colors blend. 
And some are bright and some are dark — 

'Twill be so, to the end; 
But I would paint, with golden hue, 

The friends vouchsafed to me; 
They light life's canvas as naught else — 

When one is Fifty-three. 

I hope that I am finding out 

The things that are worth while; 

Some things I used to fret about 
I now pass — with a smile. 

And although neither wealth or fame 
Will ever come to me, 

84 



It does not seem to matter now, 
When I've reached Fifty- three. 

I find that when a fellow gets 

To be as old as I, 
He's quite inclined to step one side 

And watch the world go by. 
And many things I used to think 

Just really had to be, 
I've found no one worries about 

Now that I'm Fifty-three. 

We look at age from different views. 

And frequently, we're told 
That it is only as one feels. 

That one is young or old. 
It may be with this statement firm 

The facts don't quite agree. 
For young folks think one very old 

When one is Fifty-three. 

To those, by strength, who've reached 
the span 

Of three score years and ten, 
Could they go back to fifty-three 

They'd seem quite young again. 
As for the few of eighty years 

It's very plain to see. 
They look on one as youthful, quite. 

Who's only Fifty-three. 

The funny part, it seems to me, 

(If one may be so bold, 
To joke about such solemn things 

As that of growing old). 
Is that we always fool ourselves ! 

We're never old! Dear Me! 

85 



And so I'm sure that Fm quite young — 
Although I'm Fifty- three. 

It may be that I walk upstairs. 

But what would you expect? 
When fifty past, one should take care, 

His health not to neglect. 
To tie my shoes more effort is, 

Than once it used to be, 
And I don't run to catch the car — 

But then, I'm Fifty-three. 

I notice that in different ways 

My strength I try to save ; 
I find it something of a shock 

When baby starts to shave! 
It does not need too strong a light 

My hair is gray, to see; 
It may be that, I'm slowing down — 

I've said I'm Fifty-three. 

Young folks incline to pity one 

Who's really growing old. 
But age its compensation has 

When all the facts are told. 
It's fun in youth, to dance along, 

So careless and so free. 
But youth craves much one doesn't need 

When one is Fifty-three. 

When young we're very apt to think 

Whate'er we do is right. 
On any subject that comes up 

We've firm opinions — quite. 
Having been wrong so many times. 

With greater charity 
One learns to view his fellow men. 
When he is Fifty-three. 

86 



Whatever we don't understand. 

When young, we're sure is wrong; 
But as we journey on through life, 

Our faith, it grows more strong; 
And though there be so many things 

That darkly, here we see. 
We feel that Over There we'll know, 

Ere long — at Fifty-three. 

So, well content, I journey on. 

Into another year; 
Thankful for health, for friends and love 

Of wife and children dear ; 
Like all of earth, I may not know. 

What its days hold for me, 
But He who rules will know what's best 

For me, at Fifty-three. 

And so again — Hail and Farewell ! 

To friends both far and near ; 
To all I wish much happiness 

Throughout the coming year. 
Together may we all march on 

Until the year is o'er ; 
And if so be I don't "break ranks" 

Then I'll be Fifty-four. 
February the Seventh, 
Nineteen hundred and eighteen. 



87 



WHEN ONE IS FIFTY-FOUR 

A year ago I wrote about 
How very old I'd grown to be. 
Though now I think I then was young — 
Because I was but Fifty-three ! 
But days and weeks and months passed by 
Just as they've done in days of yore, 
And now I find I've reached the time 
When I'm exactly Fifty-four. 

I think last year I wrote too much 

And said about all I can say. 

So now I wonder what there is 

That I can write about today ! 

(Not having tried you may not know; 

But anyhow, it's quite a chore! 

To hunt through most a million words 

For some that rhyme with Fifty-four ! 

But I can most sincerely say. 
That I was more than glad to hear 
From numbers of my old-time friends, 
Who wrote about my verse last year. 
Their letters I shall always prize 
And hope, this year, to get some more, 
To put among the things I keep ; 
One likes old friends — at Fifty-four. 

So I again best greetings send 
To all my friends of by-gone days. 
And trust that through the year now past 
Their paths have led in pleasant way^s ; 

88 



And thatj through all the coming years 
Be joys and blessings, more and more, 
To each and all, to young and old. 
And those like me — ^just Fifty-four. 

May we not all in spirit join 

(Though some are far and some are near) 

In loving memory of those 

We knew last year — who are not here? 

For it must be that some we love 

Have journeyed to that Golden Shore, 

Where none grow old and none are sad — 

We miss them so — at Fifty- four ! 

But we still know each other here. 
Old friends and tried, dear friends and true. 
And in these days of stress and strain 
Are tasks for even us to do. 
So let us work while it is day. 
When twilight comes our work is o'er. 
And do our part while yet we may — 
Though some of us are Fifty-four. 

I said last year that at my age 
One is inclined to leave the throng, 
And, standing by the roadside, watch 
The bustling world, swift pass along; 
BsEf" thinking over many things 
I teel that I was wrong before. 
And that young folks may shove one out — 
Unless he watch ! — when Fifty-four. 

But though those younger take our part 
At work or play, where swift the pace, 
It must be there is left' for us 
In this old world, each one, a place; 

89 



And if some youth, with dash and vim. 
Takes what was my job heretofore, 
I'll have more time to verses write 
For folks to read — ^who're Fifty- four! 

But even while I hold my job 

I've written out a lot of rhyme, 

And find it quite a pleasant way 

In which to spend my leisure time. 

And looking back I wonder why 

I did not try to write before ! 

Not much more than a year I've rhymed, 

And here I am, now Fifty-four ! 

Sometimes, like other folks who write, 
I ponder how my words would look 
With Preface and a Title Page, 
Between the covers of a book ! 
But hesitate to now begin 
An untried field to thus explore. 
Because I've always heard that one 
Was growing old, at Fifty-four. 

Had one but genius ! And the gift 
To write so all would want to read ! 
And knew his book would sell and sell, 
'T would be a simple thing indeed ! 
But fearing that to other folks 
His words might only be a bore, 
And he might have his books to burn ! 
One hates to try — at Fifty-four. 

But like Old Hamlet, questioning. 
Whether to be or whether not. 
To print or not to print one's stuff 
A scribbler bothers, quite a lot ! 
And driven by some demon strange 
I keep on writing more and more, 

90 



Until I wonder where I'll end. 
If I'm like this — at Fifty-four ! 

See how I'm rambling on and on. 

As when one writes unto a friend 

Of this and that, and puts things down. 

No matter how they start or end ! 

And talks about himself a lot 

And draws upon his mem'ry's store; 

So count this just a letter from 

A gossiper of Fifty-four ! 

But after all, when we have climbed 
The Hill of Life, which seemed so high. 
And starting down its Western slope 
Gaze out upon the evening sky. 
And think of things for which we longed 
Through months and years now gone before, 
We find that home and friends count most — 
To all of us — ^when Fifty-four. 

So if, with all these many words. 

It be that I shall only tell 

That I am glad to greet again. 

Some friends of mine and wish them well; 

Perhaps in many learned books 

There may be found no truer lore, 

Than just the simple, homely fact, 

That friends mean much — at Fifty-four. 

The year now gone has been to us 

A life of just the simple things; 

No part in war, no stirring deeds, 

Like those with which our country rings ! 

But daily needs and daily toil. 

Just common tasks, came to our door ; 

But with their doing day by day, 

A year has passed — I'm Fifty-four. 

91 



All that the coming year may bring 
To those we love, to you and me. 
Is shrouded in the future's mist 
Into whose haze we may not see. 
But we can feel our feet were led 
Along the path we've trod before, 
And journey on in simple trust; 
If young, or old — or Fifty- four. 

I hope my friends of by-gone days 
May not begrudge the time they spend, 
To read this rambling verse of mine, 
Which now has nearly reached its end. 
When older grown one sometimes talks 
Until he quite becomes d bore. 
And here I've written words and words ! 
And only said I'm Fifty-four. 

So once again I say. Farewell ! 
And send these words o'er land and sea 
To many friends, who're scattered far. 
And wish them well where'er they be; 
And hope, whatever thoughts may come. 
As they shall read these verses o'er. 
They smile about the gray-haired chap 
Who wrote them out — ^when Fifty- four ! 

Time jogs along at steady pace. 
As it has done, for ages past; 
Youth thinks of it as much too slow 
And folks my age — as much too fast ! 
Another year will roll around 
And if it be I'm still alive. 
Just like as not I'll write some words 
To send my friends — when Fifty-five ! 

February the Seventh 
Nineteen hundred and nmeteen. 



92 



WHEN ONE IS FIFTY-FIVE 

Some friends have told me that I write 

Too much about how old I've grown. 
And that the facts about one's age 

Are just as true, if not well known! 
So here I think in rhyme 111 state 

How glad I am to be alive ! 
And, taking their advice, will tell 

How young I am at Fifty-five. 

To prove my youth to those who doubt 

I certainly am glad to say, 
I sleep most soundly through the night 

And eat at least three meals a day. 
All day I'm busy as the bee 

That carries honey to his hive. 
And then at night I poems write. 

Like this — on being Fifty-five. 

Last year I started out and said 

That I had nothing left to write. 
And then wrote on and on until 

To read my words took half the night ! 
So here I state I do not know 

When to the end I shall arrive 
Or what I'll say — and do not care! 

That's how I feel, when Fifty-five. 

So if it be that you are shocked 
As I proceed to woo my muse. 

You'll have to do the best you can 
And skip what you cannot excuse. 

93 



I'm young, impulsive, scatter-brained. 
And plump into my verse shall dive. 

Not feeling I'm accountable. 
For I am only Fifty-five! 

Perhaps inspired by words I wrote 

A year ago at just this time, 
A goodly number of my friends 

In answering, replied in rhyme. 
But answers, whether rhyme or prose. 

Are read at once when they arrive. 
For one is glad to hear from folks — 

Although still young — when Fifty-five. 

If some of those to whom I write 

Were here, I'd call them "Mame" or "Bill,' 
And though they're gray and dignified 

I think that anyhow I will. 
But while with happy childhood's names 

To youthful seem, we all shall strive, 
I chuckle to myself, for some 

Are even more than Fifty-five ! 

It gives me joy to greet again 

My old-time friends of other days. 
Whose faces I too seldom see 

As we have gone our various ways. 
Perhaps as they shall read these lines 

Old memories it may revive. 
Of one who did not always rhyme 

And was not always Fifty-five. 

And to those friends of later years 

Who've known me not so long a while, 

I trust these rambling words I write. 

And send each year, may bring a smile; 

94 



That whether they be young or old 
Enough of pleasure they derive. 

So they'll not mind the time it takes 
To read my song on Fifty-five. 

To add to cost of living high 

Our landlord blithely raised the rent, 
Which made us think we'd better move 

Before our money all was spent. 
We live no more upon a "Street" 

But own a home upon a "Drive," 
And so I'm feeling very proud — 

As well as young — when Fifty-five. 

I'll pause a moment in my theme 

And take a little space to tell 
My stuff's been printed in a book, 

Of which I hope a lot will sell ! 
For somehow, by some hook or crook, 

To get more cash I must contrive ; 
I'm growing quite expensive tastes. 

As I grow young — at Fifty-five. 

So if you think my birthday rhymes 

About as bad as they can be. 
Just buy my book and read it through, 

In hopes that better ones you'll see ! 
But while I do not wish you harm 

And hope the task you may survive. 
In any case I'll have your coin 

To spend on me — when Fifty-five. 

For evidence that mentally 

I must be in an awful fix, 
I only need to mention that 

I now am writing limericks ! 
So if some judge upon the bench 

From me my freedom shall deprive, 

95 



I'll know when in my padded cell, 
It served me right — at Fifty-five ! 

But while I'm free I'll have to tell — 

They're all I wrote that ever paid ! 
They brought me Fame and Fortune both 

When they were published in The Blade. 
So though I'm failing mentally, 

Financially I seem to thrive 
Upon those foolish limericks. 

That I wrote not— till Fifty-five ! 

I call attention to myself 

To show the growing power of Sin, 
And how, with good intentions quite, 

An awful fix one may get in ! 
At first I rhymed for Daughter Dear 

Nor thought that crime I should connive. 
While now I Filthy Lucre take 

For limericks — ^when Fifty-five. 

Each sunrise brings another day. 

The days so quickly make the year, 
I feel it hardly has begun 

Until I find the end is here. 
To all my friends, both young and old. 

The year's end also must arrive. 
While with me they have older grown. 

If more or less than Fifty-five. 

So whether one be young or old 

And whether he be grave or gay. 
Or rich or poor, or high or low. 

Time urges him upon his way; 
And having journeyed many days 

With Time, his hour-glass and his scythe. 
The station that we're passing now — 

For me — is Number Fifty-five. 

96 



Some travel not so far as this. 

Some scarce their journey had begun, 
And some go on throughout the years 

Until life's race is fully run; 
Though some but loiter by the way 

And others nobly toil and strive. 
All reach the terminal at last — 

This side of that — of Fifty-five. 

Beginning now another year, 

I greetings send to all my friends. 
And hope that Fair Prosperity 

With all her train, each one attends; 
That when my anniversary 

Shall with the passing days arrive. 
Each one, like me, shall still feel young, 

Though then I'll not be Fifty-five. 

By this my friends will see I've tried 

To follow out their good advice. 
And I'll admit that acting young. 

Instead of old, is rather nice. 
Perhaps I've proved the saying wrong, 

"A dog when old learns no new tricks,' 
And having learned the trick of rhyme. 

May rhyme again when Fifty-six. 

February the Seventh 
Nineteen hundred and twenty. 



97 



A POET TO HIMSELF 
On His Birthday. 

Hello, Old Chap ! How are you now ? 
I hear that you are fifty- four; 
So take my pen and write these lines 
To wish you many birthdays more. 
I wonder if 111 ever grow 
To be as old and gray as you ? 
It does not seem I ever can. 
Because, you know, I'm not yet two ! 

I wonder what it is you do 
You talk about so much as "work" ? 
From what I hear I judge you think 
That I am something of a shirk! 
But after you have toiled and worked 
And weary been at close of day. 
You must have missed so many things 
You might have seen — with me — at play ! 

The beauty of the sunset's glow. 
The sighing whisper of the breeze. 
The song of birds, the cunning nests 
They build among the swaying trees; 
The nodding pink, the budding rose. 
The carpet of the grass so green 
On which to lie, and dream fair dreams ! 
All this — and more — you have not seen. 

I ponder if in work you find 
The things so really worth your while ! 
You talk of money and of goods — 
But do you see a baby's smile? 

98 



You hear machines that grind and roar 
Through weary hours of days so long ; 
But to you does there ever come 
The music of a mother's song? 

You try to clasp unto yourself 

The things that life each day shall bring, 

And fear your share is all too small — 

While unto all I gladly sing! 

And so we have the question old. 

Of who it is most truly lives : 

The one who gets from day to day, 

Or he who most to others gives. 

But some must sow, while others reap. 
And some must build what others plan ; 
And who shall say which task to take — 
Just so one does the best he can ! 
And so throughout the coming year. 
In full accord may we two live ; 
While you shall work and I shall sing — 
And each of us his best shall give ! 



99 



AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 



Preface. 



"Oh wad some power the giftie gie us 

To see oursel's as others see us !" 
In anguished verse old Bobby Burns 

To view himself, thus wildly yearns. 
One would not think vision so keen, 

We need, to see as we are seen ; 
But here, with gaze of prophecy 

I see myself — as I may be ! 
•K- « -x- * 

For years I've been a business man, 

As everybody knows. 
And when I wrote, I always used 

The plainest sort of prose; 
And I'd have thought I needed both 

A doctor and a nurse, 
Had anyone told me that I 

Would take to writing verse ! 

I'm more than fifty, and not once 

In that long stretch of time. 
Did I so much as even try 

To make a single rhyme ! 
What started me, so late in life, 

I'd greatly like to know! 
And why, if I could rhyme at all 

I did not — ^long ago ! 

That one so old should make one rhyme 

Is surely bad enough ; 
But in a few weeks I've ground out 

Just pages of this stuff ! 

100 



I write of preachers, darkies, dogs. 
And daughter — in a frame ; 

It seems that I can rhyme about 
Just anything you name. 

Friend wife says very rapidly 

She sees I'm growing worse; 
And she will have to leave unless 

I quit this foolish verse ! 
I think the Boss made up his mind 

To fire me very soon; 
But he can't — since I wrote about 

His hunting after coon ! 

I'm sure I don't know what it is 

That has come over me. 
But I am having lots of fun — 

Writing in po-e-tree. 
It must have been there all the time, 

But I did not know it; 
To make up for the time I've lost — 

I'll be just a poet! 

You see, my parents brought me up 

The good, old-fashioned way; 
And I have always signed my name 

Just simply as H. A. 
But now that I a Poet am, 

I wonder, would it hurt 
If I should part it in between 

And sign, as H. Albert? 

My mind's made up that after this 
I'll have my hair cut long; 

It seems to be the proper thing 
For those who write in song. 

And in the way of furnishings 
The next thing that I buy 

101 



(One ought to dress appropriate) 
Will be a flowing tie. 

In many places of late years 

I find the light's so bad, 
In order not to strain my eyes 

Some spectacles I've had; 
But they don't seem just quite the thing 

To wear with flowing tie ; 
And so, I'll get a monocle 

And wear it in one eye ! 

I also feel I ought to have 

A stove-pipe, silken hat ; 
And then, of course, I'll need a cane 

To go along with that ; 
While at it one might just as well 

Fill the whole picture in. 
And so I'll wear some yellow gloves, 

Made out of chamois skin. 

With such an outfit it would seem 

One should attain to fame ; 
And, very soon, much glory shed 

Upon his family name. 
I've always felt that something great 

Certainly was in us ! 
But, so far, in the Hall of Fame, 

You'll not find McGinnis ! 

Meanwhile — alack ! Also, alas ! 

A poet he must eat! 
I'll have to keep my business job 

To pay for bread and meat ; 
For, having lived respectably 

Through all these years of time, 
I'd hate to have my tombstone read: 

"He died of too much rhyme !" 

102 



THE SONG OF HIAWESTHER. 

THE characters: 

Wise Man Aley President of the University of Maine 

Big Chief Freeman, 

Prof. Frances Freeman, Head of Home 

EconoTnics Department 
HiawEsther Instructor Same Department 



Should you ask me whence these verses, 
Whence these words-es, all in lines-es, 
Pounded out with just one finger, 
On the thump-thump, old and wobbly, 
With the ink smudge on my fingers. 
With the curling smoke of stogies. 
With the running of the presses 
And their loud reverberations. 
With the jangling of the phone-bell. 
And the cussing of the pressmen. 
As of Hades in a print shop? 

I should answer, I should tell you, 
"From the marshes of Toledo, 
From the banks of Maumee River, 
From the land of the Ohios, 
Where the skeeters, strong and thirsty. 
Feed upon the men and women. 
Feed upon the youths and children. 
I repeat them as they hatch-ed 
In the head of old McGinnis, 
In his empty cerebellum, 
In the days of his decadence." 

Should you ask where old McGinnis 
Found these lines so full of words-es 
Found these verses without rhymes-es, 

103 



I should answer, I should tell you, 
"In the book of Noah Webster, 
In the joke-books of his fathers. 
In the back part of his head-piece, 
Some of them were found and gathered. 
From the book of one Longfellow, 
Most of them were stolen boldly. 
Stolen thence to make a grin-grin. 
For his daughter HiawEsther.'* 

If still further you should ask me 
Saying: "Who was old McGinnis? 
Tell us of this old McGinnis," 
I should answer: "Those who know him 
Say when he was sane and sober. 
In the days before the verse-bug 
Claimed him for its foolish victim. 
He was never known in writing 
To do more than pen a letter." 

From a maiden to a woman 

Now had grown this HiawEsther, 

Skilled in all the craft of cooking. 

Learned in all the lore of microbes. 

Quick of tongue was HiawEsther, 

She could shoot words forth so quickly 

As herself to give the answer. 

Ere you had the time to murmur. 

She had mittens, magic mittens. 

When upon her hands she wore them 

She could bake a plate of flap-jacks. 

While you whet your knife to eat them. 

She could bake a pie of apple 

That would cause your mouth to water. 

She could fry a raw potato. 

Fry it in the oil of cotton. 

That would make you young and lively 

Though your hair was gray and scanty. 

104 



As unto the bow the cord is. 
So is wampum unto woman. 
Where it draws her, there she follows. 
Follows as the dog his master. 
Follows as the light the darkness. 
Follows as the bee the honey, 
Follows as the dust the storm-wind. 
Follows through the fire or water — 
Always follows heap much wampum. 
When she has it, then she spends it. 
Spends it for the robes of splendor. 
Spends it for the fancy head-dress 
With its plumes of nodding feathers, 
Spends it for the foot-dress fancy. 
Moccasins of many colors. 
Hosiery of silk and satin. 
Always spending heap much wampum. 

Gravely then said Wise Man Aley: 
"Bring not here an idle maiden, 
Bring not here a useless woman. 
Hands unskilful, feet unwilling. 
Bring not here an idle slacker 
Who is always talking, talking, 
Get some girl that is a hustler. 
One who quick can get a move on. 
Get a girl with nimble fingers, 
One who clean will wash the dishes. 
One to run upon your errands 
And to wash the pots and kettles.'* 

Thus departed Big Chief Freeman 
To the land of the Ohios, 
To the land of highbrow women, 
To the land where men are noble : 
Journeyed over moor and mountain. 
Journeyed over plain and river. 
Journeyed through the noisy cities 

105 



Where the autos honk and hurry. 
In the top coop of a Pullman, 
Thus she journeyed, without resting. 

At the doorway of his wigwam 
Sat the ancient poem maker. 
Sat the gray and old McGinnis, 
In the land of the Oliios, 
Making poem verse of nothing. 
Making words that had no meaning, 
Always writing, nothing saying. 
At his side in all her beauty. 
Sat the lovely HiawEsther, 
Sat his daughter, Ec-0-Nom-Ics, 
Busy with her scales and test tubes, 
Herding up the food bacillus ; 
Of the past the old man's thoughts were 
And the maiden's of the future. 

He was thinking as he sat there 
Of the wampum he had squandered, 
Squandered on his HiawEsther, 
Squandered through four snows and summers. 
Just to buy her a diploma. 

She was thinking how she needed 
A fall suit of latest fashion. 
Needed bad a fur-trimmed head-dress. 
Needed worse a coat of sealskin. 
For the winter fast approaching. 

Suddenly from out the taxi 
Big Chief Freeman stood before them. 

Straight the ancient poem maker 
Looked up gravely from his writing. 
Laid aside his pen and paper. 
Bade her enter at the doorway. 
Saying as he rose to meet her: 
"Hope you want to buy a poem." 

106 



Then uprose fair HiawEsther^ 
Packed away all her bacillus. 
Rang the bell and ordered dinner, 
Listened while the guest was speaking. 
Listened while her father answered. 

Yes, as in a dream she listened 
To the words of Big Chief Freeman, 
As she talked of a position. 
Of a job that paid real wampum. 
Wampum she so badly needed. 

Thus continued Big Chief Freeman, 
Speaking for her Maine State College. 
"I will give to HiawEsther 
Once each moon a written paper. 
Paper small, but very mighty. 
Paper she can trade for wampum. 
If for me she'll wash the dishes. 
Come with me and wash the dishes." 

And the ancient poem maker 
Answered promptly, speaking quickly, 
Looked at HiawEsther proudly. 
Fondly looked at Ec-0-Nom-Ics, 
And made answer, very hopeful, 
"Yes, if you will buy a poem." 

Thus it was that they departed. 
Hand in hand they went together. 
Went together with the poem 
That McGinnis old had sold them. 
Sold for wampum, ready money. 

And the ancient poem maker 
Turned again unto his writings, 
Took again his pen and paper. 
Talking to himself and saying : 

"Thus it is our daughters leave us, 
Just when we are broke and need them. 
When we would a five spot borrow, 

107 



Comes a woman, tall and stately. 
Comes a woman from the East-land, 
With a hat of flaunting feathers. 
With a sweater wild and woolly. 
Beckons to my HiawEsther, 
Promises to her much wampum. 
And she follows where she leads her. 
Leaving all things for the wampum." 

Thus it was that Big Chief Freeman 
To the Lodge of Wise Man Aley, 
Brought the lovely HiawEsther, 
Highbrowest of all the maidens 
In the land of the Ohios, 
In the land of highbrow maidens. 



A POET'S SOLILOQUY. 

How many thoughts of bygone days 
Where joys and sorrows meet and blend, 
Throng memory, whene'er we see 
A well-known na/me of old-time friend. 

— Written in a Birthday Book. 



I spent at least a solid hour of time 

In writing out the verse you see above, 

Time for which during business hours I draw 

A stipend of fair size, as stipends go. 

And when the book I to the lady gave 

She glanced at it, and spoke of other things. 

And did not know if it were prose or verse 

Or copied from a last year's almanac ! 

But had I written backwards, upside down. 

Or signed my name in Choctaw or Chinese, 

Then she would proudly show her friends the page 

And tell them it was written there by me. 

108 



My family they swipe my desk and chair. 

And talk when I would think these thoughts of mine 

And when I write them out scarce glance at them, 

Or if compelled to read, look bored and sad, 

And feel that I am wasting lots of time — 

Also the ink and paper that I use — 

And wonder why I do it ! And I know 

Feel I am failing in my cranium, 

And other pleasant little thoughts like that ! 

I'd rather be a dog and bay the moon 
Than just a poet! For folks hear the dog 
And what he has to say keeps them awake ! 
While when I read a poem to my friends 
They yawn, and quickly look to see the time ; 
And when I read the second one they say 
That really it is late and they must go ; 
And if I lock the door and read the third — 
Go sound asleep, and sometimes even snore ! 

And so I almost have a mind to write 

A blood and thunder thriller, full of gore. 

With villains and fair maidens in each line 

And noble heroes scattered in between. 

And sell it to the daily Evening Scream — 

Or mayhap to the well-known Weekly Roast — ■ 

For recompense and ducats beyond count 

To show them that I really can. By Heck ! 

And then my folks would meet me at the door 
And take my coat and hat and hang them up. 
And ask me if my chair and desk were right 
And if the light was good, and not too strong , 
And if I did not feel like writing more; 
And then they'd tiptoe softly from the room 
That I might woo my muse in quietude. 
So I could sell some other thrillers soon 
And have a limousine — and lots of things — 
While now it seems I only have a grouch ! 

109 



I WONDER? 

The verses which follow were originally written for my 
dcmghter, during her absence from home, and were sent 
to her, one each day. 



I wonder who the fellow was 
That fixed the calendar this way^ 
So that we work six days a week 
And only get to rest one day ? 
If Saturday would only come 
Just after Sunday — not before — 
There'd be one day a week to work 
And no one need work any more ! 

I wonder what would happen if 

The trees and plants and things that grow, 

Instead of climbing in the air 

Straight down into the earth should go ? 

Now, really, it would be a shame 

If Genevieve, My Lady Fair, 

Must take a spade and dig six feet 

Each time she wants a rose to wear ! 

I wonder if the hens get tired 
Of laying eggs for you and me? 
And if they'd go upon a strike 
Where in the world we all would be ? 
Should they be ordered off the job 
By some fowl walking delegate. 
The suffering that would ensue 
One hardly can eggs-aggerate ! 



110 



I wonder where folks get the coin 

To buy the autos, I see go 

So swiftly up and down the street, 

All day, in an unending row? 

I wonder if to get the price 

A lot of them don't save and plan. 

And some forget to always pay 

The grocer and the butcher man? 



I wonder why the dairies say 
That it is milk to us they bring? 
They sterilize and Pasteurize 
And separate most everything ! 
Its smell is bad, its taste is worse. 
On ice, it spoils from morn till night ! 
I guess we buy it just because 
It's in a bottle and is white. 



I wonder why some scientist 
With letters tacked upon his name. 
Does not think of us common folks 
And gain himself undying fame ; 
By doing something practical 
Instead of fooling with a kite. 
And storing lightning when it storms 
To furnish cheap electric light? 

I wonder why cats yowl at night 
And why the dogs they bay the moon. 
And then lie down and soundly sleep 
And peaceful dream, when it is noon ? 
While we poor folks must hustle hard 
All through the day, when it is light. 
And so would like a chance to sleep — 
And dream ourselves — when it is night ! 

Ill 



I wonder if the learned judge. 
Who daily on the bench must sit. 
Does not get tired of lawyers' talk 
And wish to goodness they would quit? 
And if he ever thinks about 
The lessons of his early youth. 
When he was taught that folks who talk 
Should always, always, tell the truth ? 

I wonder why the grocer man 
For all the wealth I to him give. 
Will hardly furnish food enough 
So that upon it we can live ? 
He blithely goes upon his way 
Accumulating scads of pelf. 
And so I think, to even up, 
I'll start a grocery myself! 

I wonder why strawberries red 

Do not grow big, like apples do ? 

For then I would not mind so much 

If I could only have a few ! 

Then, if they'd take a great, large pan. 

Like mother used, her bread to bake, 

For dough to put those berries in — 

My ! What a shortcake that would make ! 

I wonder if the cats who wear 

Their fur all summer, are not hot? 

For being dressed the way they are 

I cannot see why they are not ! 

Perhaps that's why they do not go 

A-visiting in sunshine bright. 

But wait until the sun is down 

And sing their songs all through the night ! 



112 



I wonder why the peanut shells 

That everybody throws away 

Could not be used for breakfast-food- 

And so a lot of profit pay? 

Now I should think that it would be 

What lots of people want to buy. 

For truthfully we'd advertise 

Our brand as being "Extra Dry" ! 

I wonder what becomes of all 
The many bound and printed books, 
In libraries, on book-case shelves, 
Into whose pages no one looks ? 
It seems too bad to make a book 
That only stands upon a shelf. 
But if I thought I'd sell a lot 
It may be I'd print one myself ! 

I wonder if the sun gets tired 
Of always shining in the sky? 
And what would happen if the rain 
Instead of being wet, was dry? 
I wonder if a phonograph 
Grows weary, talking all the time? 
And how Walt Mason writes in prose 
So that it reads just like a rhyme? 

I wonder if a sudden frost 
Is what a woman really fears. 
When she manipulates her hair 
Until it covers both her ears ? 
Or if she thinks that fixing it 
So neither of her ears can show, 
May bring some magic spell or charm 
To help her captivate a beau ? 

113 



I wonder why a man should have 

So many pockets in his clothes, 

That when he looks for anything — 

Which one it's in he never knows? 

Tobacco, matches, cigarettes, 

A pipe, a knife, three pocketbooks ! 

No wonder that he cannot find 

His carfare, though he looks and looks ! 

I wonder why a woman has 

A handbag with so many things ? 

Six handkerchiefs, two pairs of gloves. 

Three sticks of gum, some pins and rings ; 

Five pennies and a looking-glass, 

A nail file and a powder-puff ; 

Doubtless this list is incomplete. 

But really it would seem enough ! 

I wonder how an artist paints 

A picture, on a canvas flat. 

That shows some mountains miles away. 

And lakes and everything like that? 

And while he labors with such skill 

His pictures all of us do fool, 

I wish he'd paint some snow and ice — 

So lifelike, it would keep me cool ! 

I wonder if the Socialists 
Will give us each an auto fine. 
With gasoline and extra tires ? 
And when they plan to give me mine ? 
Now I do not expect too much. 
And always plan to do my share. 
So if they'll furnish all the rest 
I'll get the water and the air ! 



114 



I wonder why the rooster goes 

To bed when evening's shadows creep , 

And tucks his head beneath his wing 

And soon is snoring, fast asleep? 

And why in time at 3 a. m. 

He gets awake and crows and crows ? 

Just when I want to sleep the worst ! 

Nobody knows ! Nobody knows ! 

I wonder who the genius was, 

Now lost amid the mists of time, 

Who first found out that ending lines 

With certain words, would make them rhyme ? 

I wonder if he started out 

With eyes and flies, or cheese and fleas. 

Or lose and booze, or whirl and girl ? 

For words that rhyme are found with ease ! 

I wonder why I cannot have 
A holiday like other folks? 
But have to perpetrate today 
Another of these almost j okes ? 
I wonder why I cannot form 
A Union of The Sons of Rhyme? 
Then when I have to toil like this 
I'll draw my pay for double time ! 

I wonder why the wind should moan. 
And why a window has a pane? 
Why pictures live but to be hung — 
The sugar-planter raises cane? 
Why when one scans a verse like this 
He sees that it has lots of feet ? 
And why a flat brings twice the rent 
When folks speak of it as a suite? 



115 



I wonder why my wife should sit 
With crochet needle in her hand^ 
And twist and weave some thread around 
A lot of holes — ^to beat the band ! 
And rave about how fine it looks. 
And then for me have only knocks. 
When hustling hard to bring her wealth, 
I wear a pattern in my socks ? 

I wonder when, in future days. 

Things drop in price to what they're worth, 

(Say down to what they were before 

The Kaiser tried to grab the earth) 

And when I buy a dozen eggs 

About the price I need not rave. 

What in the world I'll ever do 

With all the money I will save? 

I wonder why most autos have 
An extra tire or two along. 
When they have one upon each wheel ? 
It seems to me that they are wrong! 
For I am certain folks would think 
I'd certainly been drinking booze. 
Should I go walking down the street 
Dangling an extra pair of shoes ! 

I wonder who the fellow was 

Who fiendishly invented work? 

I hope they burned him at the stake 

And carved him with a saw-tooth dirk ! 

I hope on Hades' hottest grill 

He still is roasting, night and day. 

For starting anything like work — 

When you and I would rather play ! 



116 



I wonder why neighbors one side 

Are happiest from midnight on. 

And laugh and talk and play and sing 

Until the night is nearly gone? 

While folks upon the other side 

Always arise soon after two. 

And shake the furnace down ! But why ? 

I wish I knew ! I wish I knew ! 



I wonder when a woman takes 
Some flour and eggs and stirs them up, 
And puts in salt and lard and things 
And pours in water with a cup ; 
And puts the whole mess in a pan 
And in the oven lets it bake. 
What magic spell she charms it with, 
That it comes out a toothsome cake ? 



I wonder why a clock has hands 

Without a single finger on ? 

And why a chair should have no feet. 

But only legs to stand upon ? 

And why a pitcher, with a mouth 

That's always open, talketh not? 

And if a needle with an eye 

That looks both ways can see a lot? 

I wonder why the lady clerk 
Who's hired by the Five and Ten, 
Should give me such a scornful glance 
And calmly turn away again ; 
And talk across the aisle awhile 
And chew her gum and pat her hair. 
Before she comes to wait on me? 
I do not know — she does not care ! 

117 



I wonder why a man will talk 
Economy from morn till night. 
And then, each time he stops to rest. 
Another big cigar will light? 
Or why he tells his folks to save 
In many lectures, long and loud. 
And then when he is down the street 
His money spends to treat the crowd ? 

I wonder why the smallest dog 

Should often have the biggest bark ? 

And why the wisest looking man 

Is frequently an easy mark ? 

And why a lady's rosy cheeks 

Whose colors are an artist's dream. 

If all the facts were really known. 

Are different quite from what they seem ? 

I wonder if the man who runs 
The elevator up and down. 
Would rather be a motor-man 
And travel all around the town ? 
The motor-man goes back and forth 
And sometimes has his share of strife. 
But it is plain he does not have 
So many ups and downs in life ! 

I wonder why a chair has legs 

And why a stove has only feet ? 

And why a desk with lots of drawers 

Can't find some shirts — suits to complete? 

And if a furnace has a pipe 

Why we expect it not to smoke ? 

And how some folks who read these rhymes 

Can laugh as if they were a joke? 



118 



I wonder why the milkman comes 

So long before I would awake^ 

And runs along with hob-nail shoes 

And does a lot of bottles shake ? 

And why he always drives a horse 

At whom he loudly yells "Whoa ! Whoa ! 

And howls beneath my window "Milk !" 

I do not know — I do not know ! 



I wonder why the Parson wears. 

For pulpit use^ a gown of black. 

With great big sleeves and flowing skirts. 

That covers him both front and back ? 

I ponder if it be for style 

Or if it be a garb of woe ! 

I wonder if his clothes are patched 

And he's afraid the patches show? 

I wonder when a pair of birds 

Start out to build a cozy nest, 

If they have words, as mortals do. 

About the style that's really best ? 

And then when they have fought that out 

And plan to start to work at dawn, 

I wonder if they fuss all night 

About which tree to build it on? 



I wonder, in the days to come. 

If some will reach the Happy Land, 

And wear a crown and play a 'harp 

While walking down the golden strand ? 

Then, even in the land of joy. 

Will happiness be more complete. 

Than comes to young folks when they wheel 

Their first small baby down the street ? 



119 



My phone bell rings at 1 a. m. 

Of garments bare unto my knees, 

I stumble to the phone and hear 

Dear Central say : "Excuse me, please !" 

I wonder why she rings my bell 

Unless she wants to talk to me ? 

I do not know — you do not know — 

Nobody knows — neither does she ! 

I wonder why the autos go 

So madly rushing down the street. 

As if each driver felt impelled 

His neighbor's speed to try to beat ? 

Would they arrive before they start. 

That all of them thus hurry so ? 

And if they did, would they then stop. 

Or think of some place else to go ? 

I wonder why I want to sing 

And why my heart is full of joy. 

And all the world looks bright and fair, 

As if I were again a boy? 

I wonder how it happens that 

I feel so very blithe and gay ? 

The answer you should surely guess — 

It is the day I draw my pay ! 

I wonder why an auto stops 
Across the street each morn at four. 
Just when in comfort I would sleep 
And snooze and dream — or even snore ? 
And honks a horn so loud 'twould wake 
The dead in graves securely hid ! 
I wonder why he honks that horn ? 
I do not know — I wish I did. 



120 



I wonder why the Preacher says : 
(When we have sung the second song) 
"I find the hour is growing late^ 
And so my talk will not be long?" 
Far be it from a sinful wretch 
To doubt the Preacher's words are true ! 
But still we know — and so does he — 
That he will talk till he is through ! 

I wonder why the porter man 

To please me every way should try. 

And take his broom and brush me off 

Until the dust and germs both fly? 

When through, why does he stand around 

And clear his throat and heave a sigh, 

And look so wistfully at me ? 

He seems to wait ! I wonder why ? 

I wonder why we like to have 
Our shoes as shiny as a glass. 
And shining rings and jewelry. 
No matter if they're only brass ? 
We shine our windows and our cars — 
Why is it everybody loathes 
(With loathing beyond words to tell) 
To wear a shiny suit of clothes ? 

I wonder how an old red cow 

Eats grass that's green by day and night. 

And when brought home at milking time 

Gives milk that's always snowy white ? 

And how the milk, when put away 

Until it raises lots of cream. 

Makes butter, which upon the board. 

Becomes an artist's golden dream? 



121 



I wonder why the drug store man 
Should sell ice cream and candy sweet, 
With writing paper, pens and ink 
And even lunch for us to eat ? 
Newspapers, magazines and gum 
And many kinds of germs and bugs ; 
Baseballs and bats and other things — 
I wonder if he still sells drugs ? 

I wonder who it was found out 
That two and two they make just four? 
For one would naturally suppose 
They might be either less or more ! 
And if it's true, as we are told. 
That figures never, never lie, 
I wonder how a lot of things 
Are marked so very, very high? 

I wonder, when I read the ads 
Which of the Patent Cure-alls tell. 
For ills from corns to leprosy. 
Why everybody is not well ? 
But by the death lists I observe 
That quite a lot of people die. 
In spite of all these many cures — 
And so I sit and wonder why ! 

I wonder why the ladies' skirts 
So many of them are so tight, 
That when they want to board a car 
They seem to be in quite a plight? 
I'm glad 'I do not have to try 
To walk in one of them at all. 
For if I did I feel quite sure 
That I would quickly take a fall ! 



122 



I wonder how the man who wrote 

The Dictionary, learned so well. 

What each word means and how it's spelled, 

And put them down, so we can tell? 

I wonder how he wrote them all 

From A to Z without mistake? 

And I should think when he was through 

And stopped to rest, his head would ache ! 

I wonder, when a fellow's sick 
And does not want a thing to eat. 
Just why they bring him fruit and broth. 
Ice cream and cake — the choicest meat ? 
And then, when he is well again — 
So hungry he a crow could munch — 
Why do they let him starve to death 
On food served in a dairy lunch? 

I wonder whence the bubble comes 
Which from his pipe a youngster blows ? 
And when it breaks and disappears 
I sit and wonder where it goes ! 
Thus are these fleeting rhymes of mine 
I seem to fashion from the air! 
Read for a moment — soon forgot! 
And so are gone — I wonder where? 



I wonder if the flying man 

Away above the earth so far. 

Is ever scared, for fear some time 

He'll bump into a great big star? 

Also, I wonder if he'd be 

A hero bold of high renown. 

Should he get stuck between two clouds 

And never, never, should come down ? 



123 



I wonder why a barber man 

Whose head is shiny, smooth and bare. 

Can sell a customer of his 

A tonic for his falling hair ? 

I wonder much, for I should think 

If it would cause one's hair to grow. 

That having lots of it right there 

He'd use it on himself, you know ! 

I wonder why the waiter waits 
Beside my chair when I am through, 
And asks in tones solicitous 
What else there is that he can do? 
And why he brings a lot of change 
When he has paid the cashier's slip? 
He looks so grand in evening clothes ! 
I wonder, would he take a tip ? 

I wonder why the Major struts 
Way out in front and leads the band. 
His baton waves, his whistle blows. 
And acts as if he felt so grand; 
And wears a fancy uniform 
With hat of fur so very tall. 
When he lets others do the work 
And does not even play at all ? 

I wonder why one radish grows 
Quite long and slim, with color white. 
While next to it another one 
Is round, and gay in red so bright? 
And while I'm wondering I wish 
Someone who knows would kindly tell, 
(A lot of folks would like to learn) 
Just how the onion gets its smell ! 

124 



I wonder why the photo man 

Into a clamp my head should squeeze, 

And twist my neck and tilt my chin, 

And then remark: "Look pleasant, please?' 

I wonder, if it so should be. 

That he was sitting in my place. 

With aching head and throbbing neck. 

If he would have a pleasant face? 

I wonder why a six-foot man 
Who weighs two hundred pounds or more, 
Who's not afraid of anything 
From raging seas to cannons' roar; 
Should do exactly as he's told 
And be scared half out of his life, 
When one small woman to him speaks — 
All just because she is his wife? 

I wonder why in winter-time. 
When it is cold, it snows a lot, 
Instead of in the summer-time 
When all of us are burning hot? 
And why, when we are frozen stiff. 
We have an awful lot of ice. 
Instead of when the weather's hot. 
When it would be so very nice? 

I wonder why a chimney smokes. 
And why a steeple it does not? 
For often in the church below 
The arguments grow very hot ! 
I've thought about it quite a bit 
And yet the cause I cannot learn; 
For there are 'ologies and things 
So dry — ithey surely ought to bum ! 



125 



I wonder why the country folks 
Are taken with the city's charm? 
And why so many city folks 
Would like to live out on a farm ? 
Now human nature seems to be 
About the same it always was ! 
Would they be better suited if 
Each one lived where the other does? 



I wonder why a sign should read: 
"Shoes Shined Inside," when we all know 
That everybody wants a shine 
Outside their shoes — ^where it will show? 
I think whoever made the sign 
The meaning twisted all about. 
And if we wear our shoes inside. 
The man will shine the side that's out ! 



I wonder why my dentist has 
Me open up my mouth so wide, 
I feel as if there might be room 
For him to almost step inside? 
And when it pains so bad that I 
The chair's firm arms do wildly clutch, 
I'd like to swat him when he purrs: 
"I hope I did not hurt you much !" 

I wonder what the difference is — 

Why people going to a show, 

Will always try to tickets buy 

For seats within the foremost row? 

And pay an awful price for them. 

And never seem to money lack! 

And then at church, where seats are free, 

Will take the pew that's furthest back ! 

126 



I wonder what would happen if 
The lady, who to please herself. 
Just looks and looks until the clerk 
Takes all the goods down off the shelf ; 
Could know, as he smiles sweetly on. 
And talks with her in accents kind. 
And says he's pleased to show her things — 
The thoughts which really fill his mind? 

I wonder why the street car stops 
When packed till it will hold no more. 
And stands while the conductor man 
Throws open wide the folding door? 
But when there are a lot of seats. 
Goes rushing by, as if in haste, 
And does not even pause to hear 
The profane words I vainly waste ? 

I wonder why the banker man. 
With lots of money on his shelves. 
Won't bring it out and have a sign 
That folks can come and help themselves ? 
It must be quite a lot of work 
To have to count it every day; 
And if folks knew that it was free — 
They'd come and take it all away ! 

I wonder why the barber man 
Who, every day, has lots of hair 
That he has clipped from folks like me, 
Who have enough and some to spare; 
Does not transplant it to the heads 
Of other men, who' re quite appalled 
To find in spite of wealth or fame — 
Or even brains — they're growing bald? 



127 



I wonder how an orange grows 

So all outside is just the skin^ 

With pulp and seeds and juice and things, 

All neatly packed so tight within? 

The seeds would likely all get lost 

If on the outside they were loose; 

And if the thing was inside out, 

One could not help but spill the juice ! 

I wonder why a cake of soap 
Should cost ten cents instead of five ? 
And things to eat have mounted up 
Until I'm glad that I'm alive ! 
I wonder once and twice and thrice 
Why everything should be so high! 
It costs an awful lot to live. 
And yet it costs too much to die ! 

I wonder how a Preacher thinks 
Of all the things he has to say? 
And if he ever wishes that 
He did not have to talk each day? 
But if he feels that it is hard 
To have to talk to me and you. 
He also should remember that 
We have to sit and listen, too ! 

I wonder why a boy will play 
From morn till night, and never tire. 
And use up tons of energy 
That no amount of wealth could hire ; 
And then declare he is so tired 
How he will move he does not know. 
And drag his feet as if half dead, 
When asked to on an errand go ? 



128 



I wonder why I cannot read 
Except when I my glasses wear ? 
And why my teeth are falling out 
And lots of gray is in my hair? 
And why I have the "rheumatiz" 
Each time I take a little cold? 
I wonder if the climate's bad, 
Or if, perhaps, I'm growing old ? 

I wonder how a sickly girl 

Who daily needs the doctor's care, 

And suffers with a heart so weak. 

To walk a block she would not dare ! 

Who would not for an instant think 

She any kind of work could do. 

Can always to a party go 

And dance each dance from eight till two ? 

I wonder, if so be we meet 
A friend a dozen times a day, 
Why both of us should feel we must 
Something about the weather say ? 
Now both of us can plainly see 
Whether the day be dull or fair. 
And what he thinks, or what I think — 
To truthful be — ^we neither care ! 



I wonder why the end of school. 
When everybody goes away 
And everything is finished up, 
Is always called "Commencement Day?" 
Now if we call our pickles "Sweet" 
And say champagne is "Extra Dry," 
And finish up "Commencement Day," 
Then why not serve "Commencement Pie?" 



129 



I wonder why a boy or man^ 

No matter if he walks or stands^ 

Should always seem quite ill at ease 

Unless his pockets hold his hands ? 

I wonder when they*re hanging down 

Why he should feel there's something wrong? 

I wonder if he is afraid 

He might not take them both along? 

I wonder why the old-time folks 

Who made for us our laws and rules, 

Decided always April First 

Be dedicated to the fools ? 

Some fool themselves and some are fooled. 

Some others fool — some fool with rhyme! 

And so it seems that most of us 

Are fools or foolish all the time ! 



I wonder how an Indian 
Who tried to wear tight shoes would feel ? 
And what he'd say about the time 
He rubbed a blister on his heel ? 
Or what would happen if his squaw 
With fashion's follies tried to flirt. 
And down the trail should start to walk. 
Attired in a hobble skirt? 

I wonder why they always make 
A doughnut round, instead of square? 
And why the inside is a hole 
That's full of nothing but the air? 
Another thing I've thought about 
That I would greatly like to know. 
Why put the dough around the hole. 
And not the hole around the dough? 



130 



I wonder why the men's new coats 

Are cut around the waist so small. 

That folks my build would have to buy 

A corset, to wear one at all? 

And why they come in green and red 

And tan and hues of every shade. 

Until it looks as if the bands 

Were on the street for dress parade? 

I wonder why it always is 
When winter changes into spring. 
The ice it thaws, the grass looks green, 
The frogs wake up and start to sing ? 
The farmers plow and plant and sow. 
The buds come back and lovers sigh, 
While all I do is catch a cold ! 
I wonder how ? I wonder why ? 



I wonder why the married folks 
Should wish that they were single yet ? 
And also why the single folks 
Until they're married fret and fret? 
And why the folks who're settled down 
Wish only for a chance to roam? 
And why those going all the time 
Pine night and day to be at home ? 



I wonder why a woman wants 
To be a man, and have to shave? 
And why young folks wish to be old, 
And old folks for their youth all rave ? 
Why thin folks wish that they were fat, 
And fat folks wish that they were thin? 
And why none of us seem to like 
The state we happen to be in? 



131 



I wonder why the clock hands turn 
The same way round from day to day. 
And what would happen should they change 
And turn around the other way ? 
I wonder would time backward turn 
And boys no longer grow to men. 
And men and women children be. 
And would I. too, grow young again ? 

I wonder, often, why it is 

That folks who have to hate to work? 

And when they think they have a chance, 

A lot of them will even shirk ? 

While some few folks with lots of wealth 

And nothing in the world to do, 

Declare the days are dull and long 

And wish that they were working, too ! 

I wonder why the weather man 
Should say today it would be hot. 
While we who shiver and who shake 
Know very well that it is not? 
And when a fair and balmy day 
He prophesies with special pains, 
I wonder why it always is 
That on that day it rains and rains? 

I wonder how the man who plays 

The organ with so many keys. 

The way he makes his fingers fly. 

Knows just which ones he ought to squeeze? 

And when he has to hurry so, 

I wonder if he knows just what 

Will happen, when he pulls a stop ? 

Sometimes it sounds like he did not ! 



132 



I wonder why the choir should rise 
And act as if they meant to sing, 
And then some of them stand around 
And do not say a single thing? 
And then they start and others stop. 
And while at music I'm a dunce, 
I must confess I do not see 
Why they do not all sing at once ! 

I wonder if the Kaiser feels 

He may have made a slight mistake ? 

And that perhaps to end it all 

He might as well jump in the lake? 

I've lived a while and looked around. 

And noticed people quite a bit. 

And trouble always seems to come 

To any guy who thinks He's IT ! 

I wonder why folks work so hard 
They toil by night as well as day, 
And even work on Sundays, too. 
And never stop for rest or play? 
And then, when they are middle-aged 
And find that they are quite worn out, 
I wonder if they wonder what 
Their work and toil was all about? 



I wonder why potatoes grow 

All covered up down in the ground. 

Instead of growing on a stalk. 

Where they might hang and look around ? 

For I don't believe, down in the dark. 

There's anything for them to see. 

And so I wonder why it is 

They have more eyes than you or me ? 



133 



I wonder why I e'er began 

To wonder about things in rhyme? 

For now folks wonder why I don't 

Just wonder, wonder, all the time ! 

I wonder this and wonder that 

And wonder how and why and whence. 

Until sometimes I wonder if 

These words of mine make any sense ! 

I wonder why a pretty girl 
Will make a fellow wait and wait, 
No matter if they're going out 
And if the hour is growing late? 
And then come down and flutter in 
And start and blush and drop her eyes ? 
Now she's been ready for an hour! 
Why should she register surprise? 

I wonder why a woman cleans 

Her whole blamed house, both spring and fall, 

While so far as we men can see 

She does not need to clean at all ? 

And why she has to stir things up 

And tear around and dust and sweep. 

And save the things we do not want 

And lose the things we want to keep ? 

I wonder why some men will try 
To blow foam from a glass of milk? 
Or why my tie for fifty cents 
Was ever spoken of as "silk?" 
And if some men don't have to thitik 
Which lady is their present wife ? 
Or, when you come to think of things, 
Why we should say: "This is the life !" 



134 



I wonder why the whistle blows 
For me to go to work so soon ? 
And why it is so awful long 
Before it blows to quit at noon? 
And also if it blows and blows 
So many times all through the day, 
I wonder why it never blows 
For me to go and draw my pay? 

I wonder why I lie awake 
At night, tucked snugly in my bed, 
While rhymes of foolish verse like this 
Go swiftly whirling through my head ? 
Or why it is the Preacher's words. 
Expounding subjects broad and deep. 
While I sit upright in the pew. 
Should always put me sound asleep? 



I wonder why in summer time 
A lady wears a velvet hat, 
With fluffy furs around her neck 
And other little things like that? 
And now in winter's cold and snow, 
I wonder why she seems to choose 
To wear a waist without a neck, 
A new straw hat and low-cut shoes? 



I wonder why the paper says 
A thing is so, and tells us why. 
And then tomorrow calmly states 
That what we read was all a lie? 
And why it is the thing not so 
Is on page one — ^with headlines black- 
Whereas the truth next day they put 
In Agate type, way over back? 

135 



I wonder why Dear Central waits 

Till I am peeved and ill at ease. 

Before she heeds my frenzied call 

And sweetly says : "What number, Please?' 

And when I say that I would like 

To talk with Main 3-2-8-7, 

Why does she calmly then proceed 

To give me Park 4-6-11? 

I wonder why a candidate 

Who wants our votes shakes hands with all, 

But after he has got his job 

Does not know most of us at all ? 

And why he always tells a lot 

Of noble things he hopes to do? 

But when his term is out we find 

He really did but mighty few ! 

I wonder why an actor says 
That for applause he does not care. 
And then if folks should fail to cheer 
Will storm around and almost swear? 
Or say that, wedded to his art, 
He cares for nothing but his play, 
And then feel peeved unless he find 
His name in print most every day ? 

I wonder why a cat likes cream? 
And why a dog prefers a bone ? 
Just why a preacher likes a crowd ? 
A burglar wants to work alone? 
I wonder why girls like to dress ? 
And why the boys they like the girls ? 
I wonder at so many things 
My poor old head it whirls and whirls ! 



136 



I wonder why the things I learned 
At school, I long ago forgot? 
Perhaps because in all these years 
In real life, I've used them not ! 
But when I ask a teacher wise 
To teach the things one needs to know ; 
He looks quite grieved and sadly says: 
"But we have never done it so !" 

I wonder why all ducks they quack. 
And why hens cackle when they lay ? 
And why the guineas screech and shriek 
Through all hours of the passing day ? 
Why dogs should bark and mules should bray 
And roosters crow when it is light ? 
And why a preacher always talks. 
Or any chump this stuff should write ? 

I wonder if coal is so black 
It always leaves a dirty mark. 
Because it grows down in the ground. 
All covered up, where it is dark? 
And if it grew right out on top 
And all the day was in the light. 
Where we could go and pick it up, 
I wonder if it would be white? 



I wonder when the Preacher stands 
To wed two young and happy folks. 
Just why he does not realize 
It's not a time for worn-out jokes? 
I wonder why he tells the bride 
The groom she always must obey. 
When any man who's married knows 
That it is just the other way? 

137 



I wonder why the folks in Maine 
Think they would like to live out west ? 
And why people in Oregon 
Should feel perhaps the east is best? 
And even in the Happy Land 
Why, I expect just like as not. 
That some will think the climate cold 
And want to move where it is hot ! 

I've wondered much and wondered oft, 
I've wondered at a lot of things, 
And have not always kept the rules 
Made for a poet, when he sings ! 
So if you started at the front 
And read thus far my. foolish stuff, 
I wonder if you do not feel 
That I have wondered quite enough? 

The End. 




138 



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